


dancing's not a crime

by flailingensues



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, Olympics, PyeongChang 2018 Winter Olympics, Slow-ish burn, demisexual vibes, salty lee seung-gil, saramila being chaotically supportive, seungchuchu - Freeform, shameless references to irl skaters pls don't kill me, viktuuri being extra in the background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-01-23 22:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18559192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingensues/pseuds/flailingensues
Summary: Seung-gil has waited his entire life for this moment, and he’s determined to make it his.But the last thing Seung-gil expected from the Olympics was to grow closer to Phichit Chulanont.Not that it should bother him. Or change anything, for that matter.The problem is that it does.Or: Phichit and Seung-gil manage to fall in love during the course of the Olympics.





	1. let the games begin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to [@desperatelyobsessional](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesperatelyObsessional/pseuds/DesperatelyObsessional) for screaming in google docs with me, and giving me everything I needed, a fat beat, a fat kiss, a warm hug, a cold water (well, more like quality gifs and cheek squishing, but you get my drift). You are the sole reason this fic came out anytime earlier than the next winter Olympics. Everyone please go stan [The Second-Placers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15005849) (CEO au with badass seungchuchu??? yes please!)
> 
> Disclaimers: I messed up the timeline and it was too late to change anything by the time I found out, so just so you know, the team skate was BEFORE the opening ceremony, not after. Sorry :'( On that note, I'm not a olympic, figure skating, or olympic figure skating expert, and google could only take me so far so I made up the rest. Trust nothing! Finally, none of the other skaters mentioned in this fic have anything to do with real skaters and are all completely fictional (no offense to team korea they were amazing irl), apart from ~those two canadian skaters~ whom we all know and love.  
> Title is from Dancing's Not a Crime by Panic! at the Disco. What a bop. As always, [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/76YyBXM1KgbIGDe9gZ3xOF) is my spotify playlist for this fic!

Right now, Seung-gil is channeling serious.

It’s not difficult. He has built a career out of appearing more serious than he needs to be.

“What are your plans for the Olympics, especially since you’re competing in your home country?” the reporter asks, microphone too close to Seung-gil’s face for comfort.

_Win, obviously._

Regardless of where a competition is held, Seung-gil wants to win. Every single time. It's how he made it this far.

He rattles off a short but less offensive answer instead, wishing that he didn’t have to care about his media image so much.

(Leroy certainly didn’t have to.)

(But then again, he’d rather do what he’s doing now than sink to Leroy levels of obnoxiousness.)

“Best luck with training! Korea is counting on you!” The reporter is all smiles and cheer. Seung-gil hates it.

The thing is, the reporter is right. He is representing his country, after all. He has to show his people that they have not misplaced their faith. With his skating.

Seung-gil rolls his shoulders. The weight of a nation is on them.

***

He’s not the only hope for his country, of course. Seung-gil has teammates, all of which are preparing for the skate of their lives. They even managed to get in two entries for the men’s singles, not that that should affect Seung-gil’s ambition in any way.

This other entry is the young Kim Min-hwi, or, as Seung-gil has come to know him, the roommate who is out all the time. Seung-gil would be the last to complain about the extra space and privacy.

Min-hwi’s just made his senior debut this season. Seung-gil doubts that he’s here to win, judging by the amount of times he’s seen him chatting to the other young, fit athletes in the cafeteria, but Seung-gil knows better to judge people by their appearances. Plisetsky winning gold in his senior debut year was solid proof of that. Talent, appearance, hard work, sacrifice—every skater gambles with more or less these cards in hand. Perhaps Min-hwi has talent to waste.

Either way, his presence takes at least some of the attention away from Seung-gil. Not a lot, but Seung-gil does not need or want any more attention. He's had enough of it over the years. Too much focus on unrelated things. _Was that tension we saw with your rinkmate earlier? Are you aware of how many fans you have? What about your love life?_ And the comments; not his, but they may as well be, given how many times he has heard them, how many times he’s read them in every language available.

_His technical scores are high—_

_But where is the artistic expression? It’s not enough to choose an odd program and be done with it—_

_He literally only cares about winning—_

But what else can he fight for? There’s no other end goal in sight, apart from the next season’s best, the next _remember, Seung-gil, this is for Pyeongchang_ spilling from Min-so’s lips. He needs to be better, stronger, more accurate, more elegant, more everything.

All for Pyeongchang.

So, no, he is not here to have fun.

It might be difficult, but when he hears Kim Min-hwi slip into their room at three a.m., he decides that no, it’s not difficult at all.

***

One day after practice, he finds Min-so on her phone. Tinny music is coming out of the speakers, the bland, upbeat sort they love to use for warmups. He peeks at the screen curiously. Seung-gil doesn’t recognise the rink at first gance, but he can see enough to tell that it’s from last season, if Giacommetti and Chulanont’s costumes are anything to go by.

“I’ve seen that one already,” he says. "Nothing special."

Min-so eyerolls him. “Of course you have. Now go clean up. Let me do my research.”

Seung-gil doesn’t leave, busying himself with his skate guards. It’s rare that he gets the chance to listen to streams with English commentary, and he spends a good minute trying to discern the accent before giving up. He peeks over Min-so’s shoulder just in time to see Nekola land a Triple Axel and look way too pleased with himself.

“First to the ice is Phichit Chulanont of Thailand,” the commentator says, making an absolute mess of the name. Seung-gil does not know Thai, but he’s pretty sure he’s never heard it pronounced like that. He’s reminded of the way English flattens out every syllable of his name and feels a twinge of sympathy for the tiny figure on the screen, completely oblivious to the slight to his name.

“Well, Chulanont has been doing very well this season! Especially since you really don’t expect to hear “Thailand” and “Figure Skating” in the same sentence—”

“What,” Seung-gil says, perhaps a little too sharply. Min-so jumps a little.

“Go take a shower, Seung-gil.”

Seung-gil frowns and rubs his face with his towel with more vigour than necessary.

Min-so sighs. “This is why I don’t like you to watch videos with commentary.”

“Calling my costume a parrot feather duster is one thing. This is just stupid, writing off a whole country like that. Underestimating people never—” Seung-gil runs a hand through his hair, then frowns at the unfamiliar expression on Min-so’s face.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, and turns back to YouTube.

***

Phichit+chu: Korea is so beautiful, I’m so glad to be here again! turbulence is still hella scary though(╥﹏╥) super jealous of @seunggillee rn! #WinterOlympics #PyeongchangOlympics #let’sgetdowntobusinesslmao

***

Seung-gil opens the door to one of the many exercise rooms in the village and sighs in relief to see that it's empty. It's not like running when other people are there will cause him to combust, but it does cost him an extra layer of effort to block out distractions.

He picks a treadmill and has just finished setting the timer when he hears someone enter the room.

_So much for peace and quiet._

At least it only sounds like one person. Seung-gil stares at the monitor and prays that whoever it is doesn't talk to him.

"Seung-gil!"

He tries not to jump, because he recognises that voice. He turns, and of course it has to be Phichit Chulanont, complete in a black tracksuit, earbuds, and a towel slung round his neck. He has a plastic bottle with hamsters printed on it. It looks new, or at least Seung-gil hasn't seen it before. "Um. Hi."

Phichit flashes him a dazzling smile and Seung-gil nods back. He turns, not quite sure what to do with himself.

"Ah, wait, before you start," Phichit's hand appears on the handlebars. Seung-gil looks at him reluctantly and is met with dark brown eyes, wide and hopeful.

"Do you want to have dinner together after?"

_Does he what?_

Seung-gil is so taken aback by the question that he nods.

Well, actually, it's more like he jerked his head awkwardly in an ambiguous direction.

Damn it.

"Great! What's your room number? I'll meet you at five and we can go together!" It’s honestly nothing to make a fuss about, Seung-gil thinks, but Phichit is buzzing with excitement. 

Seung-gil tells him and immediately presses start before he can overthink anything or throw himself at a window. Or perhaps out of one.

He throws himself into the rhythm, gradually picking up pace, but his mind keeps drifting to focus on the sound of Phichit beside him, footsteps light and quick. Phichit's got his earbuds in, probably playing something poppy and motivational. Seung-gil doesn't bother straining his ears to try to listen.

He wouldn't be surprised if it was that soundtrack of that movie Chulanont seems to like so much. Seung-gil wouldn’t put it past him.

The thing is, it isn't the first time Chulanont has made an offer like this. Perhaps not always as offbeat as asking to eat together, but for as long as Seung-gil can remember—ever since he started skating internationally—Phichit Chulanont has made an effort to talk to him, to message him on Instagram, to invite him out with the other skaters. Phichit has close friends that he could be spending all his time with, but for some reason he bothers with Seung-gil as well.

And Seung-gil knows well that it's nothing personal. Phichit Chulanont is a friendly person. He's nice to everyone, even, in Seung-gil's opinion, to people who don't deserve it. He's even nice to Seung-gil, which just goes to show. Seung-gil may not understand why, but Phichit Chulanont being friendly has become something of a guarantee at this point. A constant, maybe. He supposes he should expect it by now, but he's always caught off guard whenever it happens, whenever Phichit smiles because of him.

And as much as Seung-gil doesn't like to base his emotions on things he has no control of, he doesn't mind their interactions. Not too much. At least it fills his socialising quota. At least it’s tolerable. At least…

A few more seconds and their steps synchronize, and he decides to worry about it later.

***

Phichit is telling the story of how the man next to him on the plane had managed to ask for seven glasses of red wine on a five-hour flight. Seung-gil is probably nodding in all the wrong places, but Phichit doesn't seem to mind, going for a full on impersonation of a disgruntled air stewardess.

Seung-gil wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't met Phichit earlier, but now he can see that Phichit's hair is slightly fluffy. From his post-workout shower, probably.

For a split second, he considers reaching out and ruffling it.

And almost chokes on his water.

"You okay, Seung-gil?"

"Fine," he mutters into his cup. Phichit smirks and gets back to eating.

How is he always so cheerful? Seung-gil wants to ask him, right now, damn the cafeteria, damn all the athletes around them. It's the Olympics, so why is Phichit acting like it's any old competition?

Maybe that is what it's like for him. Not skating for the host country. To be able to treat every competition equally, with new eyes, always fresh, always exciting.

Seung-gil can't do that. He can't even think of doing it, because then these past few years will have been all for nought.

_How do you do it? Don't you ever get angry? How can you post Instagram stories every day as if people aren't underestimating you at every turn?_

Seung-gil pinches himself under the table. If he's going to be thinking about asking Phichit Chulanont questions, it should be about his step sequences, not his hopes and dreams. Spontaneous thoughts like that don't get you anyway.

"Is it nice," he asks, awkwardly pointing at Phichit's bowl so he doesn't end up saying something even stupider.

Phichit wipes his mouth and grins, and Seung-gil realises that maybe he's not being spontaneous after all. He's always wanted to ask. The questions have always been there, just on the back burner. Hiding.

Which is perhaps why he says yes when Phichit asks him if he wants to eat together again the next day.

***

Phichit: I can't wait for the opening ceremony tomorrow!!!

Phichit: My room is the third on the left btw

Phichit: 20180207049.jpg

Phichit: yes, that is a photo of a shark on the door

Phichit: idk why

Phichit: but promise you'll save me if it decides to break in and eat me?

...

Sure.

***

Phichit draws a deep breath and opens his eyes to the blinding lights of the stadium. DNA by BTS fills his ears, and Phichit would kill for an Olympic-level sound system to crank up this song every day.

He shivers, even in his thick coat, and he can’t imagine how cold it must be for the audience. They have to sit still for hours. But the cold doesn't dampen the anticipation in the stadium; the crowd is practically swelling with it. He waves at the stands, an anonymous mass drenched in multi coloured lights. It’s strange, not being to make out faces in the crowd, but he takes all of it in, basking in everyone's excitement.

And it might just be Phichit’s imagination, but the roaring seems to grow louder as he turns his phone to fit everyone in. He wants to wave, like he does at competitions, but both his hands are taken, so he waves the flag as hard as he can.

He’s not exactly sure why he’s been chosen as Thailand’s flag-bearer, rather than any of the skiers with their skiing magic, but he feels proud regardless. It feels great. It feels like he’s part of something bigger. It’s not just his show. It’s everyone's show, every athlete from every country, every skater with their eyes on gold.

And here he is, in the thick of it all, waving his country’s flag.

It’s like he’s living a dream.

(The watch count of his current livestream doesn’t hurt, either.)

***

Seung-gil keeps his head high out of a dull sense of duty.

He’s hidden himself between a snowboarder and a skier, and he’s relieved to have the slight comfort that while he will be caught on cameras, at least he will not be anywhere near the focus. Team Korea is big this year. Seung-gil can justify wanting to be another face in the crowd.

His teammates are jumping, waving, cheering, pulling faces at their phones. Seung-gil’s ears are ringing just from sheer proximity to all the shouting. He wonders how their throats aren’t sore already.

His phone buzzes in his pocket—probably Phichit Chulanont posting yet another selfie from the stands. Not for the first time Seung-gil considers why he ever bothered turning on notifications for him. There's never a day when he doesn't post anyway.

And Phichit is flag-bearer for Thailand this time, isn't he? He deserves to be excited.

Seung-gil knows he should be more enthusiastic. More like Phichit, even. It should be an honour to walk with his teammates, compete for his country, but everything is just—too much.

The song playing is from a girl group that he doesn't particularly mind, so he focuses on it until it’s cut off abruptly as soon as they reach the seat stands. The team dissolves as they find their seats. Seung-gil looks around to see if he can catch a spot of bright blue team jackets, but there’s no time, and he resigns himself to spacing out to the view of President Moon’s head for the next 10 minutes.

***

Seung-gil has just finished a run through and is drinking water with the enthusiasm of a near dead goldfish when Min-so says, apropos of nothing, "So I was talking to Celestino the other day."

There is a dull thud as Seung-gil bumps into the barrier and spills water all over his face.

He frowns at Min-so for distracting him, frowns at the barrier for existing, then wipes his mouth with as much dignity he can muster.

"You did what."

"Talked. To Coach Cialdini."

"I got that part. I meant why?"

"Coaches talk, Seung-gil, we're humans too. You needn't get so worked up."

"I'm not, it's just you're bringing it up now, so it must be important—"

Min-so sighs. "It was merely that he had observed you and Phichit Chulanont getting along rather well recently, that's all."

An unfamiliar twinge of fear runs through Seung-gil. "We're not—I mean, we don't. We've been eating together. That's it."

Min-so scoffs. "Okay."

"What are you, our parents?" he snaps.

"Coaches worry about their students," Min-so says, unfazed. "And I worry about you, of course. I know I don't ask about your personal life that often—"

"Because you don't need to," Seung-gil mutters.

"—but I thought it was good that you were making friends."

"He's not my—" Seung-gil begins, but it catches in his throat.

Min-so smirks.

"So I have a friend." Seung-gil says, ignoring the slight thrill the word sent through him. "Can we move on now?"

"Just to make sure," she calls after him as he almost runs to his starting point, "This doesn't mean you can act like Kim Min-hwi. I'd rather we have no use for any of those condoms."

It takes all of Seung-gil's strength not to throw himself out of the rink in embarrassment. It would look pretty bad in the press.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Let the Games Begin by AJR.
> 
> So finally I can go and read Polestar??? That I've been sleeping on for A YEAR because I needed to finish this first????? If anyone likes seungchuchu go read [Feathers on the Ice](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11854272) and [Polestar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434657) I swear.  
> Also, because I'm always thirsty for some good seungchuchu, feel free to rec your faves in the comments!


	2. teamups, warmups

"It's too early in the morning for any of this," Seung-gil hears their pair skater say to his partner, two rows behind him. "I wish we could just fast forward a week already."

Seung-gil would agree with him, if it weren't for the whole continued complaining about the Team Event being _a complete waste of time_.

Seung-gil doesn't bother trying to hide his scowl. He's not one for teamwork, nor does he particularly feel the need to change that anytime soon, but at least he makes sure to do his job properly and not drag his teammates down.

He vaguely considers chewing them out, to demonstrate some team spirit once in a while, but on second thought, it's a terrible idea. He doesn't need to give anyone more reasons to slit his throat in his sleep with their skates.

At least Kim Min-hwi seems to be enjoying himself. He's waving the team flag energetically, as if he hadn't had to drink a Red Bull earlier because he came back to their room at one in the morning.

Not for the first time, Seung-gil wonders if it would be better if Min-hwi competed in the team skate instead of him. Seung-gil's not past his prime—far from it— but Min-hwi is the rising star, the next beacon of hope for Korean men's singles.

Realistically, Seung-gil knows no sane skating union would risk sending out a first-timer at the Olympics instead of a relatively stable skater. It doesn't make him feel better.

(Well. _Relatively_ stable. Seung-gil is still salty over last season's free skate.)

He's sworn to do his best this time, which honestly should be an unnecessary declaration, considering it's the Olympics, and that's what everyone should do. But he has to do his best and more, even if his teammates won't.

Especially if they won't.

Raucous whoops bubble up from Team Canada, and red-and-white swathed fans have no qualms in cheering back. Presumably Jean-Jacques Leroy has thrown his stupid signature gesture again. Seung-gil doesn't bother to confirm.

Try as he might, it's hard to avoid distractions. They're sandwiched between Team Japan and Team Russia. Any organiser should have known better than to put anything between Nikiforov and Katsuki. Case in point: Viktor Nikiforov is blowing kisses at Katsuki every three seconds, and Nikiforov's coach looks dead inside. Seung-gil can relate.

Plisetsky swats the back of Nikiforov's head and he stops acting like a fourteen-year-old for all three seconds before ditching his seat in favour of waltzing over to team Japan to clamp onto Katsuki like a barnacle. Katsuki's face is bright pink, and Seung-gil has to admit that he grudgingly admires the sheer audacity of it all. Having a fellow competitor as both a coach and a lover? Madness.

Plisetsky tuts and tugs on his earbuds, blasting his short program program music.

But of course Team Russia would send out both their aces. Of course they would have that kind of confidence, rather than host country pride.

The contrast is almost annoying.

"Yuuri!" 

The familiar voice catches Seung-gil's attention, and he turns ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of Phichit Chulanont glomping Yuuri Katsuki. He's decked out in full Olympic merch, proudly sporting the ridiculous Olympic Rings glasses.

(It's actually kind of charming. In a dumb way, like puppies are. When they wear silly clothes that don't fit. Or puppies wearing sunglasses—)

Seung-gil side-eyes them as they take selfies. Viktor photobombs them and they all end up laughing like they're in one of the olympic ads Seung-gil has seen circling around. Not that Viktor would need that kind of money.

Phichit's eyes crinkle at the corners, his slender hands touching both their shoulders lightly. Seung-gil squints.

And then Yuuri Katsuki catches his eye.

Seung-gil wrenches his eyes away.  He stares at his knees, hoping no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary, but black Adidas joggers enter his vision and Seung-gil resigns himself to death, or at least social embarrassment.

"Hi!" Phichit greets the whole of Team Korea, because of course he would. He even gets a proper response, a chorus of murmured "hellos", and already that is three times more enthusiasm than Seung-gil ever receives from his teammates.  Kim Min-hwi looks like he's about to explode.

"You-- you’re amazing," Min-hwi stutters before Seung-gil can say anything, and come to think of it, Seung-gil hasn't really heard Min-hwi speak English before. " _The King and The Skater_ , that program, it was so cool, oh my god!"

Phichit looks delighted, and they're chatting away, Min-hwi's enthusiasm making up for any vocabulary he's missing.

Seung-gil looks on in apprehension. He'd seen _The King and The Skater_ before, two years ago, just to see what all the fuss was about. He'd even legally paid for the sequel. It wasn't bad, as far as movies went. Very bright. Flashy. A little cheesy, perhaps, but very befitting of Phichit Chulanont.

Except Seung-gil didn't go around sticking this fact into other people's faces. No one needed to know what he did in his free time.

And already they've taken about ten selfies with various different filters. They exchange phone numbers. Phichit promises to send the photos. Min-hwi makes his excuses and leaves, looking pink in the face. Seung-gil hopes his insurance covers death by fanboying.

Phichit immediately takes the empty seat next to Seung-gil. "Your teammate is super cute!"

Seung-gil huffs. He regrets it the second after. He sounds like a petulant teen.

Phichit gestures to his phone. The filter is ridiculous, bear ears and all. 

“See? Cute.”

“He’s really not,” Seung-gil says. “No respect for his elders.”

“Pssh, alright,  _ Hyung _ .”

Seung-gil tries to mask his surprise as a cough. It obviously doesn’t work, because Phichit looks delighted. 

“Oh, Seung-gil. It could be so much worse. I could call you _oppa_.” 

“Please don't."

"Don't tell me you don't like it when people call you oppa. " __

Seung-gil shudders. "What shows have you been watching?"

Phihit just cackles, and Seung-gil can already see the future, and it is filled with embarrassing nicknames.

“Stop,” he says weakly, and curse Phichit’s laugh for being so contagious.

“You know, I'm really looking forward to seeing you skate again," Phichit says once he's calmed down.

Seung-gil sends him the blankest stare he can muster. _ “Really.” _

"Really! I've been waiting for ages."

"By ages you mean four weeks, because 4CC was only a month ago."

"Oh god, has it been that long already?" Phichit says, fake gasping. "I'm running low on supply. You need to skate, like, right now."

"Supply?"

"Seung-gil skating supply, of course. It's good for people's health. Dosage is best taken in person, though YouTube videos can act as a supplement."

Seung-gil feels his mouth twitch with the beginnings of a smile. He's not sure how Phichit does it, but he always makes it seem like he cares, somehow.

Maybe he actually does. He is Phichit, after all.

"You watch me on YouTube?" Seung-gil asks.

"Who doesn't?" Phichit grins.

It sounds like a rhetorical question, so Seung-gil doesn't reply.

They watch the Zamboni trundle back and forth in neat circles.

"Are you excited for the Team Skate?" Phichit asks, staring ahead.

Seung-gil eyes him carefully. His eyes are brown, warm even in the cool air of the rink, and he's done something fancy with his eyeliner that makes it hard to look at anything else.

_ What—focus, Seung-gil. You were asked a question. _

"I am."

"That's good, then," Phichit says.

Seung-gil could leave things at that. He could say nothing more, and all would be forgotten. Nothing special to recount, apart from the way Phichit's eyes shone with something else.

Seung-gil recognises that look. All skaters do, but Seung-gil has seen it before, on his own face, in the mirror.  _ I want to skate. I am more than this right now. _

So he says it.

"I hope Thailand competes next time," he says.

_I hope I compete against you_ , he doesn't.

Phichit blinks, eyes searching his face, and for a brief moment Seung-gil thinks he might have said too much.

"Me too," Phichit says, so quiet that Seung-gil has to lean in to hear. "In four years. I'll make sure of it."

His brow is set, eyes fixed on Seung-gil's, and despite all his athletic training, Seung-gil feels short of breath. The seats had never felt this small when it was Min-hwi sitting there.

For a few seconds, they just look at each other. Seung-gil has no idea what he wants to say, or how to say it, or how to look away.

He blinks, and Phichit is grinning again.

"But today is your day" he says, and Seung-gil can finally breathe. “Hmm. Let’s see…”

Before Seung-gil has time to protest, Phichit whips off his glasses and places them on Seung-gil head.

"I didn't get a picture of us at 4CC," he says, phone already out, and Seung-gil knows that by this point resistance is futile. He grimaces at the screen, and Phichit hums at the result. "First selfie of 2018. Not bad!"

"You just took a bunch with Kim Min-hwi," Seung-gil points out, and Phichit rolls his eyes.

"I meant with _you_ , dummy. You always run away before I can get a good snap. Or you deliberately play dead."

Seung-gil raises an eyebrow pointedly, and Phichit laughs. "See? I'll get a perfect one of us someday, just you wait."

Phichit puts his phone away, looking like he wants to say something.

Seung-gil waits.

"Good luck. You're gonna do great either way," he says finally.

"Thank you. I...will." _I will try_  is the correct answer, Seung-gil knows that much. But he can afford to be wrong once in a while.

Phichit grins, and stands up smoothly, goes to his casual charm again. Like this, with the olympic jacket and sneakers, he looks like a spectator, not a competitor.

Seung-gil's team jacket clings to him like a reminder, pressure on his chest. 

"They suit you," Phichit says, tapping the glasses on Seung-gil's face. "Keep them?"

"I, uh—"

Min-hwi, annoying child that he is, chooses that moment to arrive.

"Welp. Need to go!" Phichit smiles at Seung-gil one last time and is gone as suddenly as he came.

Seung-gil barely manages to wave him goodbye before Min-hwi is pressed up against him in a flash.

"Oh my god. I didn't know you were friends with Phichit Chulanont!”

"We skate in the same division, it shouldn't be surprising," Seung-gil says. He turns, looking for a glimpse of Phichit in the seats, but no luck.

"How can you be so cool about it? I would absolutely die." Min-hwi whines.

"I can see that."

"Hmph—Wait. Are those-- _ they are _ !” He gasps. “I can't believe Phichit gave you his sunglasses!"

Seung-gil takes them off.

"Can I have them then?"

"No," Seung-gil says sharply, and he puts them safe in his jacket pocket for good measure.

"Oh well." Min-hwi pouts. " He's so nice in person, isn't he?"

Seung-gil shrugs, then nods.

"I can't believe he's your friend.  What did you even talk about?"

_None of your business_ , Seung-gil considers saying. But he has a better idea.

"About the team skate," he says, louder than usual. "And how lucky it is to be able to take part."

Min-hwi looks at him, then glances behind them. The pair skaters have fallen quiet, for once.

Seung-gil doesn't bother looking.  Min-so's calling him. He has to go.

***

Phichit loves and hates the team skate.

On one hand, it's his first chance to see everyone compete. Everyone's gearing up, and every breath is filled with anticipation.

On the other...well, it's like every other competition, really. Competitors have their ups and downs. The stress ebbs and flows.

Phichit’s good. He's treading water.

Some joy comes from the novelty of sitting in the audience. He's never really had time to watch his competitors from the seats, not since the days when he trained with Yuuri and diligently went to see all his competitions whenever possible.

Phichit's sitting next to Chris, and he's pretty sure the people behind them are not-so-subtly taking pictures, but he doesn't particularly mind. His hair looks good today.

And well, they're not the only skaters in the crowd. He's spotted both Georgi and Otabek, and Emil is sitting a few rows down, sporting a giant Italian flag.

And of course, there's the competitors. Phichit zooms in on his phone and films a quick video of the stalls, Leo bobbing his head to the music, Guang-hong in panda ears. He mercilessly uploads it to Instagram. 

Seung-gil's hunched over, staring blankly ahead of him, and Phichit can't help but wonder what he's thinking about. About what he said earlier. _I hope Thailand competes. Next time._

"Adorable," Chris says, leaning over his shoulder.

"Um?" Phichit heart jumps into his throat.

Chris smirks. "I meant them," he says, pointing.

Phichit pauses the video and sees Viktor and Yuuri squashed together in a corner, oblivious to the rest of the world.

Something inside him melts.

"Those two," he coos, poking the screen, like that would make their real life counterparts sit any closer together. Yuuri's practically in Viktor's lap by now.

"Ahh, the lovebirds, they make me feel old," Chris complains beside him.

"Viktor's older than you, you know. And, well, no offense, but you are 27 soon. Which is ancient in skating years."

"Oh, Phichit, I'm so flattered you remembered my birthday," Chris says, batting his eyelashes. Phichit doesn't tell him that it makes it look like he has sand in his eyes.

"It's hard to forget Valentine’s day when it's the one-and-only Chris' birthday. Or when you're single." Phichit says. It’s a joke. Mostly.

"Then hurry up and find someone! I'm sure there are lines of people waiting to date you." Christophe drawls.

"You make me sound like a cashier."

"Then pick someone you like, then."

Phichit shrugs, smiling to hide any bitterness that might accidentally escape him. If he was in a musical, which, to be fair, was a prominent fantasy of his, now would be the time to break out into a number. Preferably called  _I'm Single for a Reason._

Truth be told, Phichit is tired of hearing the same old sentiment again and again, from friends, fans, and media alike. Why do people even care so much whether he's dating anyone or not? It's not like he'll die if he doesn't get engaged by 25 like everyone else seems to be doing.

No, the dating thing, or lack thereof, was fine.

The crush thing, however, is a problem. Was a problem. He glances at Soohorang on his lock screen and thinks of Seung-gil’s expression, eyebrows furrowed under his floppy fringe as he had struggled to explain the concept behind the Olympic mascot to him one evening, Google at hand and food forgotten. Phichit's heart leaps treacherously.

So. Still a problem, then.

Phichit coughs. "Anyway, how's your husband?"

"I see you changing the subject," Christophe drawls, "and I am only letting you do so because I am merciful. Mon chéri is well. He will be here next week."

"I still can't believe you're married," Phichit says, latching onto the distraction with as much grace as possible.

"Ah, well, I had to beat Viktor in something," Christophe says, leaning back languidly.

His tone is light, but then Phichit has seen just how much Christophe wants to win against Viktor over the years. It seems ridiculous to him that Christophe, accomplished skater in his own right, with his long-limbed, sensual, and languid skating, would want to continuously compare himself to Viktor-the-actual-living-legend, but then again everyone seems to want to compare themselves to Viktor.

"You beat nearly every skater in this rink to marriage, Christophe, I'd say that's a very impressive achievement." Phichit says encouragingly.

"They're certainly taking their time, aren't they?" Chris says, smirking at Viktor and Yuuri.

Phichit lowers his voice. "Maybe not for much longer."

He has predictions, carefully based on scouring all of Viktor's social media accounts, definitely the more informative half of the couple. Suffice to say visitors to Onsen on Ice this year may get more than they paid for. Phichit has already made sure to wheedle a promise from Yuuri to send him tickets.

Christophe grin spreads slowly over his face. "Finally?"

"Ah, but you heard nothing from me."

"Indeed. And you heard nothing from me about anyone retiring," Christophe says.

Phichit blinks. It shouldn't be a surprise, given he had deducted as much, but retirements always managed to throw him off guard. They were always strange to experience, an upset in a natural ecosystem.

"Viktor...so, after the Olympics? Or after Worlds?"

"Worlds, I think," Christophe says. "Or if he does well enough in the Olympics he might leave it at that, you know how he is. Nothing official, though I think most people know already."

Phichit squints at the silver-haired figure smoothing Yuuri's hair back. The year he took off to coach Yuuri had been strange enough for the figure skating world. It seems even stranger to imagine not skating against him ever again.

"If he's really retiring, he's not going to go quietly, is he?”

Christophe leans back in his seat, hands behind his head. The girl sitting behind him squeaks. "This year is going to be interesting."

Phichit smirks. "Isn't it always."

 


	3. trying and testing

The short program went well for some.

For Seung-gil, it was simply underwhelming.

Team Russia had done well.That was to be expected, from a well-rounded team like theirs. As for the others, Yuuri Katsuki was in his element once again, and Ji Guang-hong had done surprisingly well compared to what Seung-gil was used to seeing of him. The Canadian pair skaters had blown everyone else out of the water.

Team Korea...well, they had advanced. Thank god for small mercies and all that.

"Remember, Seung-gil. New strategy. This isn't the four continents. You need to focus." Min-so says as soon as he gets his scores and they're out of earshot.

"4 Continents was fine," he mutters. They both know it’s a lie.

She fixes him with a stare.

"Focus on the free."

***

Seung-gil feels insatiable. There's no time. Nothing is enough. He practices, he eats, he sleeps, but everything just feels like a distraction from what he really should be doing, and he doesn't even know what that's supposed to be.

Phichit is worried, Seung-gil can tell. Phichit had praised his performance, but Seung-gil hadn't wanted to listen. He didn't want to hear undeserved praise. Especially not from Phichit, who didn't deserve to see half-assed skating from anyone, let alone Seung-gil.

It was stupid, wanting to impress someone. A waste of time and effort.

_ Focus on the free, Seung-gil. You need this for your country. _

***

Seung-gil knows he's fucked up as soon as his blades leave the ice for his first jump. It drags on and on after that. He adds his scores up out of pure habit and hates himself more as the seconds pass. When he finally falls into his ending pose he’s more than ready to leave the ice.

Min-so's grip is tight on his shoulder as they go to sit in the Kiss and Cry.

She hasn't said anything yet and Seung-gil doesn't know if that makes him feel better or worse.

The thing is, it wasn't that bad. He's had worse skates with more people watching.

It was just _unsatisfactory_. He'd messed up the entrance to his first jump, and he should know better than to let that ruin his rhythm. But it had shocked him, a bit. All of a sudden, he was opened to a world of things that could go wrong, instead of all the things he could do right. Everything he'd been training for, these past few years, evaporated just like that. In his brain, stuck on repeat, is  _ “all that and for what?” _

Seung-gil can barely feel the seat beneath him as they sit down. Min-so's hands are like anchors, the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

He squints at the score board. He hears his name, familiar yet foreign, and maybe he'd rather someone screw it over like they had done Phichit’s.

He needs this to be over, right now, so he can go and practice. Throw everything behind. He needs to be out of here.

***

“What do you do when Masumi underperforms?”

Phichit is aware he's being about as subtle as a drunk Yuuri dancing though the streets with just a rainbow feather boa on, but he’s a little desperate here.

Luckily, Chris doesn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, or if he does, he’s in in the mood for teasing rather than exposing. “You _really_ want to know?” he drawls.

A lesser man, or at least someone like Yuuri, would have gone red at the tone of Chris' voice. As it is, Phichit just rolls his eyes, smiles, and waits for a proper answer.

Chris raises and eyebrow. “Well, I am being serious, some _traditional loving_ is usually what it takes. And we talk about it, if he wants to. The same if I underperform.”

“Traditional,” Phichit repeats, grinning, but he feels his heart sink. Not for the first time, he laments that he had waited this long to try and properly befriend Seung-gil. If only he had been a few years earlier, he wouldn’t have to worry so much about what counted as proper behaviour, about what he could do for Seung-gil, about crossing any lines…or at least, he’d know where they stand.

Wrong question. They weren't lovers, obviously. Friends.

“What do you do when Viktor underperforms?” Phichit asks, and Christophe looks at him like he’s crazy.

"Viktor doesn't really talk about his setbacks publicly," Chris frowns. "You know that as well as me. So what’s this about?”

Phichit struggles to keep his vioce in check. “I just wanted to cheer someone up, that’s all.”

Chris frowns. “Yuuri?”

“Japan won second freaking place, Chris, of course not!” Phichit laughs. "It's nothing."

Chris shrugs and checks his phone. “Ah. Viktor and the others are going clubbing tonight,” he says. “You coming?”

“Yes? No, actually,"—he needs to find Seung-gil. Or at least send him a message. Or would it be better to leave him alone? Or—a thrill rushes through him—he could invite Seung-gil out. Seung-gil doesn’t  _ seem _ to hate parties and the like, though he does tend to stay on the fringe of action. They could…have fun. Take their minds off things a bit. It could work. Probably.

“Yeah, I’ll go,” Phichit says. “Mind if I bring someone?”

“As long as it’s Seung-gil.” Chris grins knowingly. “That boy is a delight when he’s drunk.”

Phichit doesn’t trust himself to answer.

***

Seung-gil blinks. No “where have you been?”, no “sorry about your terrible skate”. No, the first thing Phichit says to Seung-gil after they barely talked for three days is “do you want to go clubbing with us later?” and he sounds so hopeful that Seung-gil says yes.

And then the doubts start pouring in. He’s not a  _ good _ at parties. It’s even worse when he drinks. And the fact is that Phichit knows this, has dealt with him before, dragged him off people and given him water. Why would he want to deal with that, especially after the mess Seung-gil’s made today?

He must have shown his doubt on his face, because Phichit looks worried. “It’s fine if you don’t want to— ”

“No, I want to.”

“Great!” Phichit eyes light up. He hesitates.  "Great," he says again.

Seung-gil's never heard Phichit sound awkward before. His fault, again.

“Um. So tonight you can save me from my non-existent Korean!”

Seung-gil lets his shoulders untense.

There is his reason. A legitimate, understandable reason. They were in Korea. Phichit needed someone who could speak Korean. Seung-gil could speak Korean.

That was logical. Seung-gil can handle logical.

Except for the fact that it sounded stupid, even in his head.

***

It's somewhere around midnight, and Seung-gil is tucked away in a corner of a club, nursing a gin and tonic. He would hate himself for it, but the rapidly flashing lights, the writhing crowd, the pulsating bass all make it hard to make a full sentence, even in his head. His seat seems to be thumping along under his thighs. Not for the first time, he can see why people get hooked to this, drowning in the universal language of dance and alcohol-induced recklessness.

He closes his eyes, and pretends for a second that he’s out there, in the crowd, shouting along to songs he doesn’t really know the lyrics to. Dancing with someone. Perhaps Phichit.

Phichit’s a good dancer. Objectively.

“Earth to Seung-gil,” a familiar someone says in his ear.

Seung-gil jerks in surprise. Phichit laughs, seemingly amused by the reaction. His hair is a mess from dancing, and his top is sliding off one shoulder. Seung-gil tries not to stare and fails.

“I—” he starts, heart speeding up, from the alcohol, or Phichit's closeness, or from the bass pounding through his chest, he's not sure. “Are you drunk?”

“Nope!” Phichit swirls his glass happily. “I have to take care of the others. I can dance without getting drunk, Seung-gil!” he says, punctuating it with a shimmy.

Seung-gil doubts Phichit’s sober, judging by the flush on his face, but opts not to say anything. Besides, Phichit  _ can _ dance without getting drunk; Seung-gil’s witnessed it before. A couple of times, actually, the most memorable of which was the dance-off Phichit had single-handedly stirred up last year, apparently because he was salty about missing out on the legendary dance battle that had started all of the Katsuki-Nikiforov nonsense.

“ _ You’ve _ had something to drink,” Phichit says, leaning over him to pick up his glass. “Why aren’t you dancing?”

“I’m not—” — _very good at it_ , he wants to say, but Phichit comments on every single dance practice video that Min-so puts on Instagram, and knowing Phichit, he’d use that to just disagree and drag Seung-gil onto the dance floor anyway.

Which wouldn’t be so bad, now that Seung-gil thinks about it.

As if answering his wishes, the music switches to something brash and fast-paced, and several cheers ring out through the venue.

“Come on!” Phichit half shouts, half laughs, and his fingers curl around Seung-gil’s wrist, pulling him up and leading him onto the dance floor.

They squeeze past people who are all too absorbed in drinking and dancing to give them any notice. Seung-gil zones out, following Phichit's lead till they end up in a pocket of space in the crowd. Phichit promptly drops Seung-gil’s hand as if satisfied, and Seung-gil’s wrist feels cold with the absence of his fingers.

Phichit starts swaying his hips, smile never faltering, eyes twinkling in the flashing neon lights. The way he dances is unfit for a dance club, really, why hasn’t everyone else stopped in their tracks to watch him?

Phichit shouts something, full of mirth, but Seung-gil can’t hear him over the  _ thump-thump-thump _ of the bass and the yells of the crowd, so he moves in closer. He can’t help but add in a swagger; blame his dance instructor.

“This song is so good,” he makes out, finally. Phichit’s lips are almost touching his ear. Seung-gil wants to move in closer, or run away and hide in his duvet, he’s not sure which. There’s a knot in his gut, screaming at him like it does when he’s halfway through a jump only to realise he’s going to fall on the landing.

He manages to murmur in agreement, trying to ignore the feeling that he should be calculating scores for a competition he doesn’t know the rules to.

“What was that?” Phichit yells over the din, and now his lips are ghosting Seung-gil’s neck, and his breath is warm on Seung-gil's collarbones. Phichit's whole body is radiating heat, and Seung-gil can’t help but rest his hands lightly on his waist to steal a bit of it.

“I said, ‘I agree’,” he says, aiming for the shell of Phichit’s ear, but mainly managing to burrow his nose in Phichits’ hair. It’s glossy and soft and tickly, and Seung-gil closes his eyes for a moment, basking in the sensation.

Then he opens his eyes and sees Phichit’s eyes, half-lidded, locked onto his, and Seung-gil could count every eyelash and every speck of shimmering glitter on Phichit's face if he wanted to. At some point, Phichit’s arms had come up to wrap around his neck. Seung-gil can’t even focus on the beat right now, just them, moving together,  _ alone _ together, lost in the moment.

***

_ It’s cold, _ Seung-gil thinks, and just on cue, Phichit sneezes.

It’s a quiet, aborted sound, one that sounded like it belonged to a small fuzzy animal rather than a human. (Apparently, a lot of people agreed, as Phichit’s sneeze had gone viral two years prior when he had sneezed halfway through a podium ceremony.)

Phichit wrinkles his nose and Sun-gil considers lending him his jacket before deciding against it. He doesn’t think Phichit would appreciate him acting like a clichéd K-drama pretty boy.

Then he sees Phichit’s bare shoulders and reconsiders.

“Thanks,” Phichit breathes as he wraps it around himself, flashing Seung-gil another smile.

He looks unfairly good in Seung-gil’s jacket. His nose is burrowed in the collar and for a moment Seung-gil panics because he can’t remember the last time he had it washed.

“Smells nice,” Phichit says, almost dazedly, and well. That should be a relief, but Seung-gil just feels more nervous.

“Um. Thanks?”

“Is that weird? Sorry,” Phichit laughs, but it’s unfittingly nervous, and Seung-gil hates hearing it.

“No,” he says, and stops himself before he makes a dumb comment about the smell of Phichit’s hair.

He drags his eyes off Phichit and onto the distant figures of the rest of the skaters, laughing and clinging to each other as they make their way back to the village.

And them two, walking side by side in the early morning mist, shoulders barely touching.

“Is it better?” Phichit asks.

_ Better than what?  _ Seung-gil wants to ask, but he thinks of his mess of a skate, and he thinks he understands.

(He hadn’t thought of the team skate even once during the whole night out.)

“Not at first,” he says carefully. “But now it is.”

_ Because of you. Perhaps. Because you tried to make it better. _

“Thank you,” Seung-gil says, and Phichit beams.


	4. intermission

“I’m so dead, Yuuri. I was _this close_ to just spilling my guts and telling him the whole evening!” Phichit flops onto the sofa in Yuuri’s common room, arm dramatically outstretched to show his fingers pinched together.

“Well, why don’t you?” Yuuri says mildly as he puts down a mug of green tea on the coffee table.

Phichit moans as he debates sitting up to grab his drink or staying snuggled up comfortably. The sofa wins, until Yuuri nudges him and he curls up to make room.

_Technically_ , there is more than one sofa, but neither of them are going to pass up an opportunity to squeeze up together like the "good old days" when they had no sofas at all.

Phichit snorts. “Well, why didn’t you tell Viktor you fancied the hell out of him?”

Yuuri chokes on his tea. “I-I did!”

“Yeah, by skating like a pole dancer. Oh, and of course, I forgot, by _actually pole dancing_.”

“ _Phichit-kun!”_

Phichit grins and burrows his head in Yuuri’s lap. Teasing him never gets old.

Yuuri pats his head lightly. “It’s not like you to hesitate.”

“Can’t charm them all,” Phichit says. He’s glad his face is hidden.

Yuuri huffs. “That’s not what I meant, and you know that,” he says, and Phichit caves, just a tiny bit.

“I don’t want to ruin anything,” he says, and Yuuri’s hand stops.

“You wouldn’t be ruining anything,” Yuuri says. “You said before how stupid it was when I was insecure about…Viktor.”

The way Yuuri says the name gets Phichit, sometimes. It’s been years, and Yuuri still says _Viktor_ with awe, like he can’t believe the syllables spilling from his lips. Like he can't believe he's allowed to say it.

Phichit is such a hypocrite, he knows. He's been dubbed the number one supporter of the couple that made the world believe in true love again, yet when it comes to himself, he'd rather settle for nothing. The fact that he’s more comfortable charming a stadium full of people than the single person he’s had feelings for god knows how long doesn’t make things any better.

“The worst that happens is that he doesn’t deserve you,” Yuuri says, and it shocks a giggle out of Phichit. Yuuri's eyes are bright, surely remembering all the times Phichit convinced him to go for that audition, that class, that living legend.

Oh how Phichit's baby has grown.

“It’s not a bad thing, is it?" Phichit says. "Trying not to rush.”

“If that’s what you want, of course it’s not a bad thing.” Yuuri says.

"I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want—"

Yuuri laughs. “Your tea’s going to go cold.”

***

Yuuri corners Phichit again after practice, presumably encourage him about his stupid crush, but this time Phichit is armed with his deadliest weapon—gossip. Yuuri barely gets a word in before Phichit blurts out: “So, I heard Viktor’s retiring?”

Yuuri furrows his brows. “Do I—Do I want to know your source?”

“Nope!” Phichit chirps, which means “Christophe” as far as both of them are concerned.

Yuuri sighs. “Yes. Um. That is the plan. I guess.”

“Well, it’ll give the rest of us a chance,” Phichit jokes.

Yuuri’s returning smile is weak.

“Oh, Yuuri.” Phichit touches his arm, lightly, and when Yuuri nods, loops his arm around his shoulders. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“We decided on it. Together.” Yuuri says. “He insisted that we should both decide.”

Phichit nods, already mentally preparing for all possible directions Yuuri could be going in with this.

Yuuri sucks in a deep breath. “Some part of me wonders that if he hadn't coached me, he wouldn’t have to retire so early.”

“ _Yuuri._ Thirty is hardly early for a skater.”

“I know that! But to think, if it weren't for me, he might even have been able to go to Beijing.” Yuuri’s shoulders tense. “How much more he could have shown the world?”

“And trade you for it?" Phichit scoffs. "Yuuri, I don’t know how long he could have skated if he hadn’t fell in love with you,” Yuuri lets out a surprised squeak at the choice of words. “Yes, he _loves you_ , Yuuri, obviously. And to me, Viktor looks way happier than he did four years ago. Hell, you could ask him and he’d probably say that these few years have been the happiest for him. And that’s because of you, and you know it."

Yuuri, for all his virtues, sometimes just fails to see how proud and happy he makes the people around him feel, and Phichit doesn't care how many times he has to say it, doesn't care how many times he has to aggressively say _you are loved_ , as long as it makes Yuuri feel that little bit better.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Is…is it weird that I still want to beat him?”

“No. It's valid. You're competitors, as much as you are friends and lovers." Phichit shrugs. "I want to beat him too. Eyes on the prize and all that.”

Yuuri snorts lightly, but it sounds like he’s smiling, and that’s a good sign.

It’s also a sign for a hug, so Phichit goes for it. It feels familiar, his hands spread on Yuuri’s back, and maybe he needed this as much as Yuuri did.

“IThis next step doesn’t have to change anything,” Phichit says, with as much reassurance he can muster.

The thing is, Phichit doesn’t even know what “anything” means. Their lives are ever changing. It comes with getting married, with making friends and rivals, with loving the spotlight, with loving the ice, with leaving it.

“I hope so.” Yuuri mumbles, hands around Phichit's neck. Despite Phichit’s best efforts to catch up, Yuuri’s still taller than him and pride shoots through Phichit yet again.

“Definitely. So you go out there and melt the ice flirt-skating with your husband.”

“Fiancé,” Yuuri mumbles, abashed.

“Exactly.” Phichit nuzzles him. “I wanna see him kiss your medal.”

And there it is, the set of Yuuri’s brow, along with the glint in his eyes.

_Oh, game on. There we go._

_Welcome back_ , Phichit thinks.

***

Phichit probably shouldn’t bring the whole Viktor-retiring-affair up with Seung-gil, but he can’t resist the desire to see his reaction. Plus, Phichit reassures himself, Seung-gil probably knows about it already, seeing as it was more or less a well-known theory in the fandom by now. Seung-gil may seem to hate social media, but Phichit has long sensed a kindred spirit behind the façade.

(Which isn’t to say he stalked Seung-gil on social media. Even though he did.)

“So it’s true? Viktor’s retiring?” Seung-gil says, blank-faced, and yeah, it definitely didn't come as a surprise to him, did it?

“It’s hypothetical,” Phichit adds. Unconvincingly.

Seung-gil raises his eyebrows. “Mm. Finally.”

Man, this boy is _harsh._ Phichit sends him a sly smile. "And is that the tea?"

Seung-gil grimaces. “That was a joke.” Seung-gil says. “I do joke. Sometimes.”

Phichit laughs. Seung-gil rolls his eyes at him, and it’s a sign of how far gone Phichit is when all he can think of is how cute it looks.

“Are you done,” Seung-gil mutters. It’s probably a trick of the light, but his ears look a bit red.

“Saving some for next time,” Phichit giggles, which prompts Seung-gil to swat at him unceremoniously. Boy, would Seung-gil’s fans kill for this moment on camera. Lee Seung-gil flapping his sleeves about like a penguin. Actually, he’d probably kill for it on camera too.

“It will be strange,” Seung-gil says, after Phichit has dodged all his attacks. “We’ve been chasing after him for so long.”

Phichit’s heart latches onto the “we” like a snagged thread on a jumper.

Objectively, he knows Seung-gil means the figure skating community as a whole, because who doesn’t chase after Viktor Nikiforov?

But the word is so tempting. He wants to hear it more.

Phichit swallows it down, settles for a joke like he usually does whenever he feels cornered. “Even you, Seung-gil? I thought you chased no one.”

Seung-gil’s eyes lock on his. “Only the best.”

Phichit blinks. He's used to looking at Seung-gil's eyes, but not with this much intent behind them, the glacial focus he usually reserves for skating. Phichit forces himself to focus the colour shift between Seung-gil’s irises and pupils and has to force quit before he starts planning a whole eyeshadow palette based on it.

Seung-gil glances down and the tension is gone. Phichit's desire to wax poetic about his eyes isn’t, however. “But there’s still Katsuki. And Plisetsky, annoyingly.”

_What about me_ appears on the tip of Phichit’s tongue.

_My god, Phichit. Be more childish, could you? Change the subject, right now._

“Well. Tiger Kitten would love to hear that you want to _chase after him,_ ” Phichit says, lightly. That much was true, at least. It would kill him to admit it, but in the end, Yuri Plisetsky lapped up attention like the kitten he was.

Seung-gil flashes Phichit a glance as if to say, _don’t be stupid_. “I’m done chasing,” he says.

Phichit would respond, but Seung-gil licks his spoon clean and Phichit’s mind draws a blank.

 


	5. you scared me

Seung-gil isn’t sure how he ended up at Phichit’s skating practice, but he suspected it came hand in hand with Min-so getting all buddy-buddy with Cialdini. It feels like they’re toddlers left to play while the adults have grown-up conversations, but it bothers Seung-gil less than it should. He doesn’t want to analyse why that is, so he gives Phichit his full attention.

(Might as well make the most of things.)

Phichit is well into his session, and it looked like he was trying an Ina Bauer for the hell of it. It’s not as technically impressive as Katsuki Yuuri’s, but there’s a sense of charm and enthusiasm that Katsuki lacks, Seung-gil thinks. It’s in the outstretched fingertips, in the hint of a smile in Phichit’s determined expression. Phichit sweeps into his step sequence, and Seung-gil can already picture the triumphant clench of Phichit's fists, the exhilaration on his face as he bows to his audience.

Seung-gil imagines what it would feel like, standing next to Phichit on the Olympic podium. Would it feel the same as brushing shoulders on a walk back from the club at three am in the morning? Or would the cold air feel different, more piercing, a reminder of any distance between them?

He shudders. Hanging around the rink isn’t doing his body temperature any good.

Seung-gil turns to get his jacket just as Phichit kicks off into a jump.

_Wait—was that?_

It all happens too fast; one moment, Phichit’s flying; the next, he’s slipping on the landing; there’s a sickening thud of body against ice. Seung-gil tears off his skate guards. They clatter to the floor accusingly.

Seung-gil isn’t thinking, just feels the air leave his lungs, as if it’s him sprawled on the ice. The stadium seems to be expanding, walls lunging high over them both, dragging him further and further away from where he should be right now. _Hurry, hurry, you have to get up, catch the next beat, carry on gracefully, as if you never fell, even though every fibre of your body is screaming and the numbers cling to you like they belong, minus one, minus one—_

He hears a breathless laugh. “Seung-gil,” Phichit says, simple as that, and Seung-gil can feel again, can feel the smooth fabric of Phichit’s training shirt under his fingertips. Something’s biting at his knees; he’s kneeling on the ice. Phichit laughs again, shoulders tensing under Seung-gil’s grip, and Seung-gil struggles his way to a standing position, hauling Phichit up with him.

“I’m okay,” Phichit says, just as Seung-gil asks “are you okay,” and Phichit laughs, can’t stop laughing, and Seung-gil feels his face burn. He still doesn’t let go of Phichit. Maybe if he grips hard enough, he’ll slip into Phichit’s skin and put an end to his mortification.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Phichit brings a hand up to wipe his eyes, and to Seung-gil’s satisfaction, returns it to Seung-gil’s grasp afterwards, “But seriously, I’ve never seen you look so nervous. Like, ever.”

Seung-gil scowls, but he’s pretty sure he looks petulant rather than threatening.

Phichit laughs again, sounding breathless. “Why did you rush out?”

_You scared me_ , Seung-gil wants to say.

“Why did you do a quad loop?” he asks instead.

Phichit blinks. “I…” His voice falters.

Seung-gil sets his jaw. It’s either now or never.

“I don’t know what’s up with Cialdini or Muramoto, or Min-so, for that matter,” he says, “but I can teach you.”

Phichit’s eyes widen. “You’d do that?”

Seung-gil wants to flinch from the sparkle in Phichit’s eyes. “It’s my best jump.”

He knows it sounds arrogant. He shouldn’t care; he's never needed to curb his ambition before. There's something humbling about Phichit that makes Seung-gil conscious about his own efforts. But Seung-gil knows he needs to do this, as much as he needs to choose his own program music, as much as he needs to win gold.

Phichit’s eyes flicker over his, searching his face. He takes in a breath; Seung-gil can feel the draw of air on his face.

“I know.” Phichit’s hands tense in his. “That’s why I wanted to do it.” Phichit smiles, soft and small.

Seung-gil blinks.

“Well come on then, teacher,” Phichit says, tugging him along. "So _slow_."

Seung-gil skates to catch up, pushing all his thoughts to the back of his head for later.

***

Phichit looks different in practice, Seung-gil decides. It’s one thing to see Instagram videos of him decked out in his practice gear complete with gloves that have finger-pads for emergency scrolling. It's a different thing entirely to see the way Phichit casually sweeps his fringe back, and the way his free leg seems to gravitate towards the ice and subtly inch up again, as if trying to go undetected.

And the way he laughs after he realizes Seung-gil _had_ noticed. He winks conspiringly, and Seung-gil smirks. Then Phichit dives straight back in, and Seung-gil hadn’t anticipated the crinkle on his brow, the way he tugged his lips between his teeth when he was concentrated.

Seung-gil had always thought Phichit’s showmanship was effortless. He tries to match Phichit’s frown with his show-winning smile. They slide into place like matching puzzle pieces.

***

“What can I do in return?” Phichit asks, out of the blue, when they’re sharing dinner.

“I—what?” Seung-gil looks at him, bewildered.

“You know. For the lessons.” Phichit shrugs.

“That’s not why I did it.” Seung-gil frowns.

“Of course not.” Phichit says. “But, you know, I'm really grateful. So I wanna do something.”

“It’s nothing. You don’t have to do anything for me.”

Phichit’s smile crumples a little, and Seung-gil's heart sinks. He doesn’t want Phichit to feel indebted to him. But he doesn’t know how else to proceed.

There’s a pause as they both stare at their food.

“What if it was something for the both of us?” Phichit ventures. “Not if you, like, hated it or anything. But I've wanted to do something about your hair for weeks.”

Seung-gil runs his hands through his hair self-consciously. “Is it bad?”

“It’s wonderful,” Phichit says. “Just a bit...long. You know how it is.” He shrugs, a teasing smile sneaking onto his face again.

As if to prove his point, Seung-gil’s fringe chooses that moment to fall in front of his eyes. He blows it away with a huff.

“Alright,” he says, and tries not to think about how Phichit’s hands will feel in his hair.

***

Phichit _had_ said he could drop by his room whenever, and things like this probably came as part of the whole friendship package deal, but Seung-gil can’t help but feel like he’s trespassing when he knocks on the door. What if Phichit wasn’t in? What if his roommate answered instead? Seung-gil can already imagine some athlete saying to Phichit, “Oh, by the way, a weird Korean guy with terrible hair came asking for you, where do you meet these people?”

Seung-gil is seriously considering making a run for it when the door opens and Phichit appears, brandishing a pair of scissors. “Hi!”

“Um. Hi.” Seung-gil eyes the flash of silver warily. “Do you usually greet visitors with sharp objects?”

“Only the ones with nice hair,” Phichit grins, showing him in. “If it’s any reassurance, I just trimmed my own fringe, so you can check if my skills are up to your standards.”

Seung-gil doesn’t even have haircut standards, but if he did, he’s pretty sure Phichit would go up and above them. Whatever it is Phichit’s done, it makes his eyebrows look even more stunning and his eyes seem brighter than usual.

“So. Yep?” Phichit cocks his head to one side.

Seung-gil nods. It’s probably just the lighting.

“Alright! Awesome! Okay, lemme just—”

Phichit dashes off, leaving Seung-gil use the opportunity to survey his room. There’s a suitcase overflowing with clothes at the foot of Phichit’s bed—the owner obvious because of the duvet crumpled into a nest-shaped pile, topped with a hamster plushie. Seung-gil’s seen Phichit wear every pair of shoes that are laid out in a row by his bed, apart from a pair of Oxfords with the tissue still in them, and Seung-gil makes sure to remember to check if they appear at the banquet.

Seung-gil wanders over to what Phichit has made up to be a temporary dressing table, decked out with an impressive array of bottles and cosmetics. He pokes a makeup sponge idly. Phichit really is good at this kind of thing.

“Okay, so.” Phichit reappears, dragging a chair over and sitting him down. “To here? Or here?”

“I think I’ll let you decide.” Seung-gil tries not to shudder as light fingertips graze his neck.

“Well, it looks like my dream of seeing you in a K-pop bowl cut is easier than I expected! I even have pink hair dye. Or mint, if that’s your thing.” Phichit says with more glee than the sentence deserves. Seung-gil just fixes him with a flat stare. Which is considerably hard, seeing as Phichit’s bare midriff is right in front of him.

“Next time, then,” Phichit laughs, and then hands are on Seung-gil’s scalp, and he can’t really think anymore.

***

Was this all a convoluted ploy to touch Seung-gil’s hair?

No. Obviously. Phichit had watched Seung-gil’s hair grow wilder by the week. He was surprised Min-so hadn’t forced him to get it done by now, but she was probably more focused on actually training Seung-gil instead of counting his split hairs from across the table when the eye contact became too much to bear.

And yeah, there was a hairdresser’s in the Olympic village, but Phichit wasn’t going to be the one to bring that up.

Phichit lifts the offending locks, and _wow how is Seung-gil’s hair so unfairly soft and can Phichit just run his fingers through it right now until he falls asleep? Or dies of happiness???_

Okay, so maybe it was a little bit deliberate. A bit.

“Your hair is so perfect,” he gushes, and he feels Seung-gil jolt ever so slightly.

“Um. Thank you?”

God, Phichit needs to calm down, which is a near inhuman feat when he literally, finally, has his hands in Seung-gil’s hair.

“Honestly, just let me be your personal hairdresser from now on. Even Yuuri’s isn’t this nice!”

“Really? That surprises me.” Seung-gil says dryly.

“What, your hair being better than Yuuri’s?”

“No, I—” Seung-gil flushes. “I-uh, just meant—you seem to like touching him.”

Phichit feels like bopping Seung-gil’s head but refrains because he’s way too invested in committing the exact floofiness to memory.

“Of course, we’re friends.”

He wonders if he should elaborate, do the “we’re _just_ friends” thing that so many people like to do, but it feels like betraying Yuuri, and their relationship is not something that can be undermined with such frivolity.

Also, Yuuri’s _engaged_ , as the whole world knows.

Unless—Unless Seung-gil thinks that Phichit has a crush on Yuuri? Because boy would Phichit feel sorry for anyone in that situation. He’s seen what Yuuri-oblivious-Katsuki has done to people more times than he should have back in Detroit. Now with the add factor of his relationship with Viktor and it would be enough to make anyone cry. Just look at tiny Yuri.

“Yeah, Yuuri’s my best friend, you know?” _And he’s definitely not the one with the hair I want to run my fingers through all night long. Sorry, Yuuri, no offense._

Seung-gil hums. Phichit can only hope that he doesn’t realise that combing for this long is unnecessary.

_Just a bit longer._

***

Seung-gil holds his breath for the first cut.

It’s gentler than he expected, not like the efficient and borderline violent haircuts he’s used to. Phichit holds up each curl of hair softly, light and lingering.

Seung-gil breathes again, matching it to the sound of Phichit’s. The _snip snip snip_ of the scissors gradually begins to sound familiar, and the occasional graze of cold on his scalp feels good somehow.

Seung-gil wishes he could see Phichit’s expression, whether it would be the looks of pure concentration of a tough warm-up, or the faint smile he wears when he’s well and truly in the zone. He almost can’t control jerking his head up to see for himself; only the thought of Min-so’s wrath if she saw him with a chunk of hair missing prevents a disaster from happening. He occupies himself by trying to guess where the next snip will happen. He’s nearly always wrong.

A warm hand cups his face and Seung-gil’s shocked into a shiver, but Phichit merely tilts his head up to look at his handiwork. He peers down at Seung-gil’s fringe, and Seung-gil has to steel himself instead of banging their foreheads together. He can feel the faint tingle of air on his face, along with the hint of metal against his forehead and _wait doesn’t Phichit’s mouth look a bit too soft, can he just—_

“What do you think?”

Seung-gil's pale face staring back at him in a mirror. Except he looks different—his bangs now sweep away from his face, the most well behaved he’s ever seen them, and his curls no longer look like they want to climb into his ear and nest there. Phichit had somehow managed to make him look more confident, apart from the fact that his cheeks look a little flushed.

“Wow.”

Phichit’s smile behind the mirror is borderline bashful. “Good?”

“You’re really good at this.” Seung-gil brushes his bangs as an experiment. They fall back into place comfortably.

“Yeah, well. I had a long time to practice, I guess.” Phichit shrugs.

The image of a 16-year-old Phichit wrangling his own fringe in the mirror, squinting at a YouTube tutorial and surrounded by cosmetics barges into Seung-gil’s mind with more force than needed. The Phichit that had to run to the rink in a shopping mall after school, who came to warm-ups with more makeup than necessary, who had shined brightly, even back in their junior days.

He wishes he had gotten to know that Phichit. Granted, Seung-gil went through high school too tired and apathetic to care whether his socks matched or not. But they may have still been friends, if he had bothered to talk to Phichit sooner.

The real Phichit gathers up chunks of Seung-gil’s hair like it’s precious.

“Wanna take a picture for the insta?”

“Of my deceased hair?”

“Shush, they might hear you!” Phichit cups his hands like he's protecting a baby hamster. “Suit yourself then. I’ll do my duty.” He takes photos of the hair, then points the lens at Seung-gil in what he supposes is meant to be a subtle way.

Seung-gil raises his eyebrows at him. Phichit waggles his back defiantly.

“Got to capture good handiwork, you know. Not to mention a good model.”

Seung-gil doesn’t get to process that sentence before stylist Phichit is back.

“I really want to do your makeup, oh my god,” Phichit squeals at his phone, and Seung-gil’s heart speeds up oddly at the notion of Phichit’s hands near his face again.

Seung-gil frowns it off. “I haven’t even thanked you for the haircut yet.”

“Seung-gil, the haircut was supposed to be a thank you, we can’t keep thanking each other for thanking each other!”

“We’re friends, friends are allowed to do things for each other! Including their makeup.” Phichit rallies on. “Come on. I’m the one who benefits from this, so it can be your thank you, if you _really_ want to be like that.”

Seung-gil knows a lost cause when he sees one. He also hadn’t decided on a final look for his exhibition skate yet, and wasn't Min-so always on to him about accepting kindness graciously?

He nods.

Phichit’s glee is almost contagious. “Okay, so I had some ideas…”

***

phichit+chu: EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND MOURN THE FALLEN SOLDIERS

#haircut#Seunggilshairissofine#newlook

christophe-gc: I want a haircut too

phichit+chu: @christophe-gc married lovebirds have to pay 😉

shallweskateisamasterpiecefiteme: @phichit+chu @christophe-gc phichit we love you but what is this logic

seunggil-lee: thank you

olympicsbishes: OMFG GUYS LOOK AT THIS @sgfanclub @leesgforgold

***

Seung-gil used to follow Phichit’s Instagram with a sort of morbid curiosity. It was a bizarre viewpoint on the world of figure skating he never cared or got to see, snippets of practice and embarrassing moments such as Ji Guang-Hong tripping over his own feet in ice show practice and compilations of Yuri Plisetsky’s scowling face whenever he messed up. And Katsuki and Nikiforov, of course. Countless videos and photos of the couple that were only barely made bearable because of the equal amount of hamster updates. And occasionally, there was Seung-gil himself, in the background of videos of skating practice or at the other side of corridors during competition vlogs in the weird moments when their two worlds collided.

That had changed, of course. Somewhere along the way, he had started to enjoy seeing the world through Phichit’s eyes. He could partially understand how Phichit loved people so much, loved skating so much. And he, Seung-gil, had slowly become part of that world.

15-year-old Seung-gil would have sneered at the thought.

Well, screw him then.


	6. comrades in coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [desperatelyobsessional](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesperatelyObsessional/pseuds/DesperatelyObsessional), the real mvp here. I'm going to stop before I get sappy in the notes.

Phichit had run out of excuses to bother Seung-gil, so he decided to bother him for no reason at all.

He’d texted “need coffee let’s go” to Seung-gil, along with some quality over-dramatic gifs of hamsters screaming. Not the best method to ask someone out in history, but hey, it did the job. There’s a knock on the door fifteen minutes later.

“It’s six in the evening. You won’t be able to sleep.” Seung-gil says bluntly as soon as the door opens.

“You’d be surprised how immune my body is to caffeine. I swear I’ve built up this resistance like they do with poison in the movies.”

Seung-gil struggles for a bit before his mouth curves into a smile. He’s wearing an oversized sweater the colour of oatmeal, which has Phichit’s head hurt between protesting how much of a waste it is for such a gorgeous person to be dressed in a potato sack regardless of how good his hair looks, and how cute his sweater paws are.

“So, did you come to tell me not to drink coffee or are we gonna grab something?”

Seung-gil’s raises a brow in challenge. “It’s your sleep. Let’s go.”

***

Seung-gil pays for it later, when they get back to Phichit’s room and Phichit jumps on top of his bed with no intention of sleeping whatsoever. Even with veins full of caffeine and messy hair, Phichit is still more fashionable than Seung-gil could ever hope to be. Seung-gil rubs the hole in his sleeve nervously and hopes Phichit hadn’t noticed it.

Seung-gil glances around, reminded of the last time he was here. The room isn’t much different, apart from a black notebook lying on the desk.

“What’s that?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him.

Phichit bolts up. “Um, that’s—”

_That’s private_ , Seung-gil can hear it unspoken. It’s in the crease in Phichit’s brow and the widening of his eyes.

Seung-gil shouldn’t have asked. He puts it back.

“Actually, no,” Phichit shakes his head. “Do you want to see it?”

Seung-gil stares at him, waiting for a hint of uncertainty. It doesn’t come.

“I can’t.”

“You can. I give you permission to.”

Seung-gil holds his gaze, and there’s something in his eyes. Seung-gil quietly compares it to the looks he’s seen from Phichit before.

Determination. And a tiny bit of challenge.

He picks up the notebook with no further comment.

***

Phichit tries not to watch Seung-gil’s every reaction as he turns each page. It’s a difficult operation. Seung-gil's expression hardly ever changes from that of deep concentration, aside from the slightest quirk in his eyebrows every now and then. He smirks once as he turns the page gently, and Phichit swears he hasn’t felt this paranoid in years. Was he looking at the sketches of the costumes, perhaps? Or the notes on the program titles? But, wait—he’d written those in Thai, so it’s not like Seung-gil would recognise that there was a whole page about him. At least Phichit hopes so.

Seung-gil’s fingers trace lightly over a page and Phichit can’t bear it any longer. He shifts over to see Seung-gil’s fingertips grazing the coloured pencil drawings of hamster hats.

It could be worse, Phichit figures.

“These are plans for an ice show,” Seung-gil says.

“Yep.” _Congratulations on your astute observation_ , Phichit wants to joke, but Seung-gil’s voice is tinted with something that sounds almost like awe and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

“You… planned all this.”

“Am planning.” Phichit corrects. “It’s a dream of mine.”

“To have an ice show.” Seung-gil flips through the notebook again. “In Thailand.”

Phichit nods. He feels that if he talks too much Seung-gil won’t have room to talk, and there’s something simmering there that needs to be let out.

“In that interview, last year...you said you wanted to make ice skating more popular in your home country.” Seung-gil says, slowly. “You weren’t joking.”

Phichit blinks at him. “I, uh, probably say it a lot. But I mean it, yes.”

“It was two years ago. I thought, at the time—" Seung-gil breaks off. “Nevermind. Not the point.” He flicks his eyes down to a page. Seung-gil doesn’t know it, but his name is there, barely hidden by a language barrier. “You’re really going to do this.”

“Getting funds might be a bit of a problem at the moment though.” Phichit doesn’t know why he’s trying to downplay this, the passion project that means the world to him. Perhaps he tries to hide it precisely because it means so much. Even Yuuri has only heard snippets of his ideas. And even though it’s Seung-gil, and Phichit has nothing to be afraid of, even though Seung-gil was the first person he would have told anyway—it’s scary. The flame has gone from a flicker to something roaring, and Seung-gil is staring straight into the fire.

“We all have reasons to win the Olympics,” Seung-gil says, glancing at him.

Phichit tries to hide a grimace with a smile. Things like winning or losing shouldn’t feel like a taboo between them any longer, given that they’ve been competitors for—how many years is it now? Eight, if you counted juniors?—but the implication hangs heavy over his head. It’s strange, he wouldn’t care half as much if it was the emperor of skating himself Viktor Nikiforov who said it to him. It wouldn't mean the same thing.

Seung-gil seems oblivious to Phichit’s struggles, engrossed in the notebook. Maybe he didn’t mean anything by it. Seung-gil wanted to win too, after all. He wouldn’t judge Phichit for craving the impossible.

“I thought you hated ice shows.” Phichit opts for changing the subject.

“No! I mean, I do. I mean, most of them.” Seung-gil’s frown deepens as his cheeks tinge with dark red. Phichit forges on, encouraged.

“So if I invited you, would you perform?” Phichit asks, all casual, as if Seung-gil hadn’t just flipped past a costume Phichit specifically designed for him.

“Yes,” Seung-gil says, without hesitation.

***

Seung-gil takes his ice show plans way more seriously that Phichit expected him to. Seung-gil had never been one to write much in texts, preferring to opt for deadpan reaction stickers more often than not. But ever since their conversation in Phichit’s room, Seung-gil had been linking him videos of past skates and sending him pictures with comments such as “reference” and “costume” and Phichit can’t help but smile every time he sees it. He saves the links, jots down more notes in his notebook, and spends about three minutes choosing the best animal reaction gif to send in return.

But the easy cadence of Phichits’ interactions with Seung-gil does not slow down the rapid arrival of the short skate. Stress clings to the skaters long after practice sessions end and the cold leaves their skin.

Some take it better than others, of course. Emil, for one, is unfazed, and Viktor Nikiforov is unabashedly blasé as ever. Phichit isn’t sure how Yuuri is coping under his cool, composed, “this-boy-makes-Viktor-Nikiforov-kiss-medals” pre-game persona, but he carries spare matcha sachets in his bag just in case.

The thing is, for all the excitement the Olympics provides, it’s hard for Phichit to think of it as “just another competition”. It’s too many other things, all at once—a chance to prove his country to the world, a chance to show his country what is possible. A chance to prove himself.

But It's like that for everybody.

“We aim to win, of course,” Celestino says when he voices that fear. “But don’t forget to have fun, Phichit.”

Phichit supposes he might be the only skater in the world whose coach tells them to focus on having fun. He’s lucky in that aspect.

But he doesn’t pretend to not know what it means. With Yuuri, Viktor, and not-so-tiny Yuri in the running—it’s implied, in the way the media focuses on them, the golden trio, in the way the words “no pressure” are thrown around like used tissues.

It tugs at him—the performer at his heart doesn’t care, but another part—the athlete, perhaps, the part that keeps him practicing quad flips from old videos of Viktor for longer than he should—wants to do better. To prove his worth. To be exceptional.

He misses how it used to feel.

***

Min-so makes Seung-gil do warm-ups till the last possible minute, which means that he misses Phichit’s short program. He can hear faint audio from the tv, tantalisingly out of sight.

“How did Phichit Chulanont do,” he asks as soon as she comes back with his refilled water bottle.

Min-so looks at him oddly. “Try to focus on yourself for now, Seung-gil.”

Annoyance flares up in him. It’s not helped one bit when John-Jack freaking Leroy chooses that moment to pass through with a smug smile that reads “I’m in the last group, peasants.” Seung-gil directs his scowl at Leroy’s stupid red-clad back instead of Min-so.

He tries for a different approach. “He’s the one to beat in previous groups. I need to know his score for reference.”

Min-so isn’t having any of it. “Seung-gil, _focus_.You can worry about Phichit later, okay?”

It’s very much not okay, but pushing it won’t do him any good, so Seung-gil shuts up and channels his frustration into the mild burn in his calves when he stretches.

There’s a touch on the small of his back as Min-so pushes him lightly. “We’ve worked hard for this moment,” she says. “You go there and show the world what you—what Korea is made of.”

_Tough stuff?_ Seung-gil’s brain supplies. He masks it with a scowl that Min-so steadily ignores. It feels wrong. This is supposed to feel like something else, isn’t it?

But he doesn’t know what.

Seung-gil is numb when they finally are allowed on the fresh ice, speakers announcing things he blocks out, crowds cheering under white lights and purple hues. There are more people in the crowd compared to the Team Skate, and the atmosphere is charged, crackling. Seung-gil tries not to remember how it went last time he was out on the ice.

Min-so smiles at him as he hands her his jacket during warm up. "This is what we've been waiting for."

“Show the world you are ready, Lee Seung-gil. Do Korea proud.”

***

Min-so smiles at him from behind a husky plushie. Seung-gil almost smiles back.

His scores aren’t bad.

They won’t beat Nikiforov, even in the genius’ 30-year-old state, but it’s not bad. Objectively. For the Olympics.

Still not good enough, of course. Sleeping tonight won’t be easy.

He ditches Min-so as soon as he can, leaving her to deal with the bag of soft toys as usual.

Seung-gil asks five people if they knew where Phichit Chulanont is, four of which he has never spoken to before, the fifth being Yuuri Katsuki.

“I, uh, used to go hide in the toilets. The farther away the better. Phichit's joked about it a few times recently,” Katsuki says.

Katsuki looks at him and says “good luck,” far too kindly for Seung-gil’s liking.

_He’s hidden away, obviously he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, let alone you —_

Seung-gil finds Phichit on the third try. Phichit is gripping a washbasin, face dripping wet, makeup smudged and hair falling out of place.

“Seung-gil.” Phichit lips move like he's forgotten how to smile. “It felt like too much, so I escaped.”

Seung-gil rarely engages in the whole activity of hugging. There were a few times, like when he graduated, or the occasional arm around his shoulders in pictures. Or maybe a few times when he was drunk, but he doesn’t like to think about that. Min-so’s tried to hug him a few times, some more successful than others. He’s not like Katsuki or Nikiforov, who need to be wrapped around someone 24/7.

Except the smile on Phichit’s face isn’t anything like what Seung-gil was used to seeing, and he’s blinking a little too hard, so Seung-gil does what Phichit would have done and hugs him.

***

“So how did you do,” Phichit asks, muffled in Seung-gil’s shoulder. He’s grateful for it, and he’s also pretty sure Seung-gil notices the damp patches he’s making on his jacket. Seung-gil mercifully doesn’t say anything, just shifts his hands awkwardly on Phichit’s back.

Phichit doesn’t need to ask how Seung-gil did; he’d stayed just long enough to see Seung-gil’s performance. It had made him feel better, slightly. Phichit can feel Seung-gil dying to ask “are you okay”, but instead he rambles about his short program in a low monotone. “Flubbed the 4S landing,” he says. Phichit hides his smile. Seung-gil _had_ flubbed his quad sal, but he’d just frowned and continued as ever.

“You did great,” Phichit says, hugging him tight, breathing the cool scent of air conditioner and deodorant and something that’s become familiar and makes him happy.

“So did you.”

There’s so many things Phichit wants to say. That it’s hard to bring all his confidence to show the world and have the result be painfully average, to want to skate with all his heart and not even know if he’s good enough to qualify for the next round.

“You qualified, Phichit.” Seung-gil says, and maybe Phichit ended up saying that out loud.

“Seventeenth place. 82.11. It’s the worse I’ve done in years.”

“Scores,” Seung-gil says, and it’s a proof of their friendship that Phichit understands what he means.

_They’re just scores. You’re always telling me not to focus so much on the scores, that it’s about the performance._

But at the same time. _They’re all that matter in the end, and I know how much that sucks._

Phichit lets out a shaky breath.

“It’s not just about the scores,” he mumbles. The fabric of Seung-gil’s jacket rubs against his lips.

Seung-gil doesn’t respond, just tightens his grip, and Phichit knows he gets it.

Phichit leans back to look at Seung-gil’s eyes. They’re dark grey, focused on him, and Phichit feels himself relax, tension rushing out of his shoulders like bubbles out of a soda can.

Phichit exhales shakily. “Back strong tomorrow?”

Seung-gil nods. “Strong tomorrow.”

Phichit smiles. His can feel the tear tracks cling at his cheeks. “Thank you so much, Seung-gil.”

“I haven’t done—” Seung-gil starts, but Phichit cuts him off.

“You have. Of course you have, you big, lovable dummy.”

“Oh,” Seung-gil says, looking extremely confused.

Phichit just hugs him again.


	7. stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to our beloved parrot boy Seung-gil by the way! I hope everyone is having a safe and happy Pride month <3

_Strong today_ , Seung-gil thinks, as he lands a Triple Loop. _Breathe. Palms out. Implore. Reject. Clench your fists. Hold on to what you can._

 _Show them your power, Seung-gil_. Min-so’s voice in his head. Power, in these hands, these legs, this body. He’s still young yet.

He flings his head back on cue. Stubborn, violent, headstrong.

That was how this program started.

There used to be a time when he thought he could win on technique alone. No time to settle down, no time to feel, only just enough seconds to strike out, like he does now, as the notes of _Mars_ cascade upon the ice like a thousand marching feet. No going back, no restarting, only charging forward, _forward —_

Not now. He can’t afford it. No one can.

Dark notes. Drum roll. There’s a split second, and he breathes it in, fills up his lungs.

The music changes.

_“Mars? It’s a classic choice, Seung-gil, but for the whole of your free? You’re going to be exhausted.”_

_“Why not? I can do it. A medley is expected. I want to do the unexpected.”_

_“I know you could do it, Seung-gil, but that’s the point. A medley would be expected of someone else, but you’ve never done one before. It would be a great chance to show your range. Try something different.”_

_I’m always doing something different, Seung-gil thinks. I don’t even know who I am any more._

_“We could definitely have you be more romantic, for instance.”_

_Seung-gil glances at Min-so, unimpressed. “Are you joking?”_

_“No.” She never jokes. “Mars, Venus, Jupiter. We have the build-up, twist, emotional climax. It’s perfect.”_

_“I don’t know if you've forgotten already, but the last time I tried to skate something romantic I was swept out of the GPF.”_

_“And you’ve been avoiding it ever since. Am I overestimating you when I say I believe you have improved since?”_

_“Technically, maybe—”_

_“Seung-gil, your TES was a lot higher than your PCS.”_

_“What was I supposed to do, fuck them both up?”_

_“I’m saying that we both know where you can improve, Seung-gil. And we can start by having you skate a program that needs more emotional input.”_

_Seung-gil doesn’t hold back a scoff._

_Min-so sighs. “Seung-gil, how did you feel when you were skating Almavivo?”_

_“Like not falling on my ass,” he mutters._

_“You know what that song represented. You went for greed. Did you feel it?”_

_“Yeah, because me wanting a gold medal is the height of sexiness.”_

_Min-so doesn’t bite. “It was there, Seung-gil. You just need to let it out.”_

_“What, you want me to do a Katsuki and shout that Bimbimbap is my Almavivo?”_

_To his surprise, Min-so just laughs. “Seung-gil, you can snark all you want, but it’s a romantic Holst medley or no Holst at all.”_

_Seung-gil knows when he’s lost. He also knows when Min-so has a point that he doesn’t want to admit. He nods._

_“Good. Glad we had this conversation, Seung-gil. Now go and do your warm ups.”_

_Thank you_ , _Min-so_ , Seung-gil thinks. _And sorry for my insolence_.

He could almost laugh at his younger self.

Now. Step sequence.

Venus, Bringer of Peace. Goddess of Love. _Feel it_.

The notes are soft, gentle, caressing, like water lapping at his fingertips. A shock of adrenaline courses through him, a delayed response, but he rides it through. _Breathe in. Exhale. Arms outstretched, back arched—_

He’d scoff, if he were any younger. He’s not one to do a Romeo program, not when everybody else was doing them.

But it’s something new about it. Skating his heart out, ambition, hope, tenderness, ugliness, all of it. And it’s _there_ , the ugly parts, zealous greed, things that should be stuffed under the bed along with childhood playthings. And the overlying fear that smothers it all, the fear of rejection. Of giving it all up for nothing.

And yet—the scores are racking up in his head. It’s one familiar face in a crowd of unfamiliar emotions.

He can do this.

He can’t romance a crowd. That much he’s come to accept.

But romance one person?

He can try.

***

Phichit sits in the lounge, holding onto a giant hamster plush for dear life. His eyes are glued to the live broadcast, not even paying attention to all the cameras decked out around him.

Seung-gil is moving like liquid.

It’s mellow, but Phichit can see the intent, _feel_ it. Nobody will say this Seung-gil looks like a skating machine. No way. This is the Seung-gil Phichit knows, the one he’s selfishly come to see as _his_.

 _Thank god for my fans_ , he thinks as he hides his face behind his hamster plush. Is this what Yuuri had felt, all those years, watching Viktor on the TV screen? Awe and inspiration?

And resonance.

The music ebbs and flows and transforms into joy, ecstasy, and Seung-gil leans back into the music, lets himself be carried by it, brimming over with it.

The whole stadium follows him with bated breath.

 _Whoever said you skate without emotion, Seung-gil, should eat their hearts out and cry themselves some salt to marinade in_. Phichit hides his smile.

The music is familiar. Jupiter, the happy song. Seung-gil, competing in his own country, joyous for the world to see.

Phichit’s chest feels tight and hollow at the same time.

The music ends, a final, triumphant note that Seung-gil throws his head back to, one clenched fist pointing to the sky. His hair fans out like a halo.

The stadium erupts with cheers.

Seung-gil gazes up with a smile on his face.

***

Seung-gil stumbles into the winner’s lounge with a husky plushie like he’s not supposed to be there.

“Push me down, will you, Seung-gil? Congratulations,” Christophe shakes his hand, and Seung-gil looks at him blankly before giving him the faintest of smiles and a subdued “thank you.”

Phichit smiles to himself, eyes never leaving Seung-gil’s face. Seung-gil’s eyes widen slightly when he sees him, and he barely manages to get a word in before Phichit marches over and pulls him into a tight hug. It’s familiar and yet novel at the same time, warm against the lingering cold of the rink, and the smell of Phichit’s hair gel, reserved for competitions.

“You were beyond _amazing_ .” Phichit squeezes him tight. “I can’t even _begin_ to describe how that made me feel.”

Seung-gil laughs, weakly, very conscious of his lips near Phichit’s skin. There’s a feeling quite like pride blossoming in his chest, and he _never_ feels this way straight after a skate.

Perhaps it’s the adrenaline that makes him joke. “I thought you were going to do a Nikiforov then,” he says.

Phichit huffs into Seung-gil’s shoulder. “Why, did you want me to?” Seung-gil’s too high on adrenaline to think properly, pulse beating loud in his ears. He laughs, out of relief, out of shock, out of everything he can’t feel but is somehow feeling now. Phichit laughs with him and lets him go, reluctantly, and then Seung-gil notices all the cameras pointed at them.

They _probably_ didn’t catch any sound. Seung-gil can’t bring himself to care either way.

“I have to go now, you need your spot.” Phichit’s cheery show winning smile is back, and Seung-gil doesn’t like it. Seung-gil had something in his arms, and now it’s slipping out, he feels, so in one last desperate gesture he presses his husky plushie into Phichit’s hands.

Phichit looks up at him, surprised, but he takes the husky with a smile that’s more like him, what Seung-gil’s used to seeing. He grins and pushes his hamster into Seung-gil’s chest.

Christophe smirks at them while he relocates his bouquet to the other seat, leaving the middle empty for Seung-gil.

He takes it. His hands are clasped tight over Phichit’s gift as he stares at the tv screen.

All he can do now is wait.

***

Time seems to slow down after the free skate winners are announced. It slowed down ever since Yuri Plisetsky stalked into the winners’ lounge and Seung-gil was pushed down yet again. Always, always just out of reach.

It hurt less then he thought it would, somehow. Less of the sharp bitterness he had grown accustomed to over the years, more...fatigue, he supposes. Or something else.

To be surprised is unsurprising, in figure skating, and the medalists this year were unsurprising indeed.

Seung-gil sighs and runs his hand through his hair. It wasn't always enough to do one’s best, but it was the only thing you could do.

There’s still a long way to go, he knows that much. Maybe tomorrow he’ll feel better. Maybe he’ll be able to look at Min-so and not apologise in his head. He might even be able to face the media and proclaim his goals for Beijing 2022.

But for now, he'll rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's cliche, but I am a sucker for [The Planets Suite.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Isic2Z2e2xs) Mars is the edgy dramatic bop, Venus is the soft romantic ballad, and Saturn is the one you sing in the shower. I love the idea of Seung-gil secretly jamming to his program music.
> 
> Jin Boyang rocked Mars in his Free skate medley in 2017, and I've always seen a bit of Boyang in Seung-gil, or at least in how he's portrayed—having the technical skills and quads down but lacking in artistry (at least that's what commentators used to say :/). I hope to see Seung-gil in the movie grow like Boyang has over the last couple of years!


	8. cocooned

“I have a date,” Min-hwi proudly announces to the room at large. Or Seung-gil assumes it was to the room at large, since _he_ wasn’t bothered to listen. “And I probably won’t be coming back!”

“Congrats,” Seung-gil says dully. Whilst the slightly more abundant free time after the FS had been treating Min-hwi well, Seung-gil couldn’t bring himself to feel the same. He’s tired, he won fourth place in the Olympics, he misses his dog more than he should, and going through clips of his competitor’s skates and analysing them isn’t doing the job of distracting him like it should. He hugs the hamster plush under the safety of his blanket, where Min-hwi can’t judge him, and feels slightly better.

“You should do something fun too, hyung!” Min-hwi chirps, and Seung-gil can’t tell if it sounds genuine or condescending. Min-hwi’s dressed in skinny jeans, a fitting T-shirt, and an oversized bomber jacket that Phichit would approve of. Even though Min-hwi is more or less a baby, a trendier Korean who actually knew how to date would perhaps be a better match for Phichit, rather than one who was huddled in a blanket in worn pajamas, missing his dog.

_Stop that_ , he scolds himself.

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and Seung-gil tugs himself into a blanket cocoon and presses play on YouTube, not wanting to have to see Min-hwi and his sweetheart flirt through the doorway for five minutes.

“Phichit Chulanont has come a long way from practicing in shopping malls, that’s for sure!” the commentator says, and Seung-gil latches onto it, tries to find the catch, any hint of sarcasm or disdain, but there isn’t any, and there’s that at least. Seung-gil knows Phichit wouldn’t care about this kind of validation, but it’s somehow reassuring to know it’s there regardless. That people can hear of at least some part of how much he’s done.

“Oh my god,” Seung-gil hears Min-hwi say in English. Seung-gil turns up the volume aggressively. _Just leave already, stop flaunting it in my face_.

The commentary blasting in his ears fails to mask the familiar voice that speaks up.

“Hi, Min-hwi! You look amazing!”

Seung-gil’s heart almost stops. He pokes his head out of the blankets to see Phichit with a drawstring bag, looking extremely ruffled.

Seung-gil is torn between going to Phichit and staying right where he is, seeing as he’s wearing his worst pajamas and still mildly in shock.

“I’m so sorry, Seung-gil,” he says apologetically. “My roommate brought someone back and I just can’t deal with anything right now, and you were the first person I thought—uh…”

“Uh, come in,” Seung-gil stutters, not used to Phichit hesitating.

“Is it okay? You’re not busy? I don’t wanna disturb—”

“Come in, please!” Min-hwi chirps, and Seung-gil simultaneously wants to thank Min-hwi and kick him out. He briefly does the first mentally and moves on to the second.

“You don’t have to worry about disturbing us. Kim Min-hwi here--” Seung-gil fixes Min-hwi with a stare, who suddenly looks like he’d rather stay home after all, “has a _very lucky_ _date_ with the Chinese skier he’s been talking about for months now.”

Min-hwi opens his mouth to protest just as Phichit gasps in delight, and Seung-gil can’t resist sending him a smug look behind Phichit’s back.

“I’m—not—” Min-hwi glances at Seung-gil, his expression clearly asking for help, but Seung-gil is not going to give him the satisfaction.

“Oh my gosh, Min-hwi, congratulations! No wonder you’re dressed so well! She’ll love you, I bet!” Phichit hugs him, and Min-hwi perks up immediately, basking in the attention. He even has the nerve to grin at Seung-gil over Phichit’s shoulder.

“And he’s not going to come back for the night, are you, Min-hwi?” Seung-gil drawls, and he’s not seeing wrong, Min-hwi actually _glares_ at him for the first time since they’ve known each other.

“Is he now?” Phichit is clasping Min-hwi’s shoulders and Min-hwi is grinning like an idiot, and okay, maybe Seung-gil’s plan is backfiring a tiny bit.

“It’s nearly 7, Min-hwi,” Seung-gil says. Min-hwi checks his watch, like he doesn't trust Seung-gil, the little brat, and squeaks. “I have to go now,” he says, eyes wide.

There’s a flurry as he sweeps to check his phone and wallet, while Phichit stands near the doorway, looking tired but amused.

“You can sleep in my bed if you want, Phichit!” Min-hwi chirps before he ducks out of the room with a wave and a blush on his cheeks.

Phichit waves back. “Good luck with your date!”

“Finally.” Seung-gil sighs as soon as he hears the door click shut.

Phichit laughs at Seung-gil’s tone. “But he’s adorable!”

“He’s annoying,” Seung-gil says, curtly, and Phichit just giggles.

“I’m really sorry for barging in,” Phichit says. “I promise I’ll text next time. It’s just been…a lot,” Phichit’s gaze flickers over Seung-gil, huddled in the covers, and a smile dances on his lips _. You too, huh_ , his eyes seem to say, and Seung-gil smiles back tiredly.

“You can come over whenever you want,” Seung-gil says.

“Oh, but poor Min-hwi!”

“Lucky Min-hwi, more like,” Seung-gil mutters darkly. “He really loves you.”

“I’m sure,” Phichit says good-naturedly.

Seung-gil is caught off by Phichit’s grin. “Um, do you want a shower or something?”

“Oh god, yes please,” Phichit exclaims, dumping his bag and getting his stuff.

As soon as the sound of running water starts up, Seung-gil clambers out of his covers and tries to tidy up, trying his best to ignore the black boxers poking out of Phichit’s bag. He rummages in his suitcase for more presentable sleepwear and fails. Phichit has probably seen him in worse already, Seung-gil rationalises. And it’s not like Min-hwi is here anymore to make things even worse.

Seung-gil sighs. He hopes Min-hwi spills his drink on himself.

Or maybe not—Min-hwi could start dating, and then Seung-gil wouldn’t have to feel threatened by fashionable youngsters who were also fans of _The King and the Skater_.

Seung-gil huffs and flops back on the bed.

***

“I’m tired,” Phichit mumbles, nestling his head on Seung-gil’s shoulder.

They’re cuddled together in Seung-gil’s blankets. (Phichit had sat on Min-hwi’s bed, teasing with a “Min-hwi said I could,” but Seung-gil had just raised his eyebrows pointedly and Phichit had promptly jumped over to his side of the room, laughing like an idiot.)

“You did really well.” Seung-gil says.

“Thanks,” Phichit mumbles. “Congrats on 4th place, Seung-gil. You did...amazing...”

Seung-gil has a lot he wants to say to Phichit, but Phichit's head is already nodding.

Tentatively, Seung-gil reaches up to comb a hand through Phichit’s hair. It’s fluffy from the shower, and Phichit is warm, swathed in blankets and baggy pajamas with hamster print. His face is scrubbed clean of cosmetics, and he looks softer, eyelashes fanned over his cheeks.

_He’s beautiful_ , Seung-gil’s brain registers, and the notion doesn’t alarm him like he’d thought it would. He’s calm, and warm, and nothing could ever harm them, not when they’re huddled together like this. He wants to protect this person in his arms, never have him come to any harm—actually, no. They’re both figure skaters. Pain is inevitable.

He might not be able to protect Phichit, but he can support him. They can push each other to greater heights, the many futures they envision for each other, that they both know they can reach.

_You really have grown up_ , a voice that sounds uncannily like Min-so’s sounds in his head.

_Shut up,_ Seung-gil thinks, but he’s smiling as he switches off his computer and gently tugs a dozing Phichit to lie down together.

***

Seung-gil wakes up before Phichit the next morning. Phichit’s face is pressed up against his chest and Seung-gil feels the warmth through the fabric.

He cards a hand through Phichit’s hair. Phichit shifts and murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like “pancakes”.

A thought occurs to Seung-gil. It scares him, so he closes his eyes and listens to Phichit’s breathing.

***

“How do you know if you _like_ someone? You’re not trying to hit on me are you, Lee Seung-gil? You know I gave up on crushing on you ages ago—”

“ _No,_ ” Seung-gil says through gritted teeth. He’s already regretting coming to Sara Crispino of all people for advice. Why didn’t he just stick to Google, like a normal person?

Oh. Because he’d tried that already and needed data from someone with actual experience, maybe?

This whole thing is mortifying.

“Calm down, Seung-gil, I’m messing with you. Oh, you wanna know why?” She smirks at Seung-gil, who’s mouth is open to ask the exact same question. “Because it’s fun.”

Seung-gil frowns and closes his mouth. Mila Babicheva has been a terrible influence on Sara Crispino, who is currently tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear, a gesture that has an uncanny resemblance to the many interviewers and journalists Seung-gil has experienced over the years. He wouldn't be surprised if she brought out her phone and started recording.

“Okay, okay,” she says, after she’s finished laughing, “I got the jabs out of the way—why are you asking?”

“I don’t _need_ to give reasons.”

Sara’s eyes grow alarmingly wide. “Oh my god! Seung-gil, do you really have a crush?”

“No. Answer my question.”

Sara forges on undeterred. “My god, you totally do! Who is it?!”

“I—” Seung-gil considers running away there and then, but Sara would just track him down and force him to confess. All the other skaters would have a field day. Might as well do damage control right now.

He thinks of Phichit, his eyes, the way he laughs wholeheartedly, head thrown back.

Thinking about it while sitting across him when eating lunch or while tucked into warm blankets is different from talking about it in broad daylight. It’s as if it were real. As if Seung-gil stood a chance.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Sara’s gleeful grin shrinks into a thoughtful smile. “Huh.”

Seung-gil bites his lip. “I’ll make a deal with you. Tell me what it feels like. If it fits, I’ll tell you who it is.”

“Deal.” Sara smirks. “You’ll tell me anyway,” she says, which Seung-gil chooses to ignore.

“You cannot tell anyone else about this.”

“Of course! I’m not dumb, Seung-gil.”

“Not even Mila Babicheva.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” Sara chirps, in a voice that meant _I was totally thinking of it._ Seung-gil doesn’t bother refuting her, and Sara takes full advantage of the fact.

“Love talk with Seung-gil. I am _living_.” She giggles.

“I’m leaving.”

“No you’re not,” she laughs. “Just so you know, it’s different for everyone, okay? Even if I tell you my whole romantic history, you might not experience anything like it. People love in different ways, like they live in different ways.”

Seung-gil nods curtly, ignoring the steady rhythm of his heart in his chest.

“So, if you like someone. You wanna spend time with them. You want to keep looking at them. You think a lot about them, more than you do with other people.”

“…Friends do that too.” Seung-gil frowns.

Sara scoffs. “Sure, you wanna bang your friends?”

Seung-gil winces.

Sara notices him recoil. “Oh, of course, I forgot you didn’t…okay, so do you get jealous of your friends? Imagine them talking to someone that isn’t you, touching their hair, running a hand over their shoulder.”

He thinks of Yuuri Katsuki, taking a selfie with Phichit. Phichit chatting about movies with Min-hwi like Seung-gil isn’t even there. Phichit face leaning on Christophe Giocemetti’s shoulder, them laughing together.

Seung-gil’s fingers twitch.

“If you don’t like that then you’ve probably got a bingo.” Sara supplies.

Seung-gil feels his heart sink.

He’s—godammit, he’s—

But Phichit’s his _friend_. It’s taken so long for them to get to this point. And Seung-gil just had to go and make things complicated, just has to feel more than he usually does, than he’s ever experienced before. He’s never had a problem with feelings before. They usually were as fleeting and intangible as a puff of smoke in the wind, there for a few confusing seconds, then dissipated, gone forever. Never this weight in his chest and lightness in his head. Feeling deliciously at ease with everything one moment and distracted and occupied the next.

This is the worst.

“You can’t help how you feel,” Sara says, as if on cue, and Seung-gil has to stop himself from glaring at her. He alone got himself into this mess.

He shakes his head slowly.

Sara laughs lightly. “You wanna hear how Mila and I got together?”

Seung-gil blinks.

“It was 2016, Mila had broken up with her cheating ass of a boyfriend and I had finally dumped Mickey, not that he really left me alone.”

Seung-gil raises an eyebrow in lieu of reply.

Sara pouts. “It was an improvement for him, okay?”

“I wondered why you two didn’t join ice dancing or pair skating,” Seung-gil says blankly.

“Don’t, I’d never get a date in sideways.” Sara shudders. “Anyway, Mickey had _improved,_ and Emil finally asked him to—wait, this is my story right here, my brother needs to stop hijacking!

“So that was one hell of a season, as you remember, and since things didn’t go anywhere with you—it’s a joke, Seung-gil, calm down—Mila and I decided to go on holiday when it ended. Just the two of us. Being _gal pals_ and all, you know.”

Seung-gil didn’t know, but Sara’s smile turns into something dreamy and frankly quite ridiculous.

“It was heaven. Three weeks alone with my best friend. I had always _suspected_ I had a crush on Mila, because who wouldn’t, honestly, but I was very sure after all that.”

“What happened?” Seung-gil asks, despite himself.

“Bikinis and body shots,” Sara says, completely straight-faced.

Seung-gil grimaces. Not helpful. At all. In more ways than one.

“I’m just saying, the whole friends to lovers thing? It can work. At least it did for us.” Sara says.

“But how?” Seung-gil asks, sounding desperate to his own ears. “How can you be sure? What if you just end up ruining a perfectly good relationship because of stupid feelings?”

“Your feelings aren't stupid, Seung-gil,” Sara says, much more gently. “They’re just _there._ I mean, sure, you could hide it forever and swallow your pain until you get invited to their wedding to someone who isn’t you and regret it for the rest of your life, but trust me, you’d need a high pain tolerance. As for ruining a relationship... well, relationships aren't pieces of paper you can rip apart like that. And who knows, it might not all be a disaster! They could like you back!”

Seung-gil frowns. He’d been so caught up in his own emotions that he’d never really stopped to consider the slight possibility that Phichit could like him too.

He thinks of dancing and coat sharing, Phichit’s gentle fingers in his hair, their chests pressed together in a hug. Being able to feel Phichit’s heartbeat. His scent, warm and familiar.

But then again, Phichit was nice to everyone. He hugged anyone who needed a hug. It wasn’t as if Seung-gil was special in that aspect. Phichit’s one of the kindest people he’s met. Of course Phichit would like Seung-gil.

Just maybe not in the same, confusing, messy way that Seung-gil likes him.

“So. Was I spot on or nah? Can you tell me?” Sara props her chin up on one hand, fully absorbed.

Seung-gil opens his mouth, but feels like his heart has shifted places in his body, clogging up his throat.

_If you say it, it’s going to be real. You can never take it back._

_And if it doesn’t work—if you hurt Phichit’s feelings, I swear—_

Seung-gil frowns. Closes his mouth.

Sara’s expression turns into something like pity.

“It’s okay,” She says. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Seung-gil stares down at his lap.  _It’s not okay_ . He’s in love with Phichit Chulanont and he _doesn’t know what to do_.

Sara puts her hand on his. He can’t bring himself to brush it off.

“You have my number,” She says. “Any problems, advice needed, whatever, just call me. Or text me, that’s more your jam. Mila and I will help however we can.”

Seung-gil nods, not daring to look up just yet.

“Look on the bright side. Now you have free love coaches!” Sara says, and Seung-gil finally allows himself to breathe freely.


	9. metamorphosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop whoop

Viktor suggested it. At least Phichit _thinks_ Viktor suggested it, drunk as he was on life and love and podium medals. They’re counting down the days left till the exhibition skate and Viktor’s high spirits are infectious.

“Tonight, we party!” Viktor yells. He has Yurio in a headlock, who is grumbling about wanting to go and meet up with Beka. “Phichit, you're coming, right?”

Phichit knows that if Yurio _actually_ minded being in a headlock, he’d be able to throw Viktor off in a millisecond, which is why Phichit deems it appropriate to grin and snap a quick pic of the duo before shooting Viktor a thumbs up in reply. “If drinks are on you then definitely.”

Viktor laughs and agrees to buy him a drink before whisking Yurio off. “Come on, you’re old enough to go clubbing with us now, Yurio!” Phichit hears in the distance. If it were anyone other than Viktor in his place, he would fear for their life. As it is, Yurio just hisses.

Phichit smirks and starts mentally planning his outfit. The situation called for some sparkles.

***

Sara (your love coach): So. For the party. Are we on crush alert?

I hate you. And when did you change your contact name?

Sara (don’t pick up): 1. No you don’t, and 2. you will never know.

☹

Sara (don’t pick up): If you dare change my contact name to anything else I will bribe Min-hwi to serenade you at 6 AM every morning for the rest of the Olympics

......

Sara (your love coach :/): Okay so. What are you wearing tonight?

[20180221007.jpg]

Sara (your love coach :/): No you are not. Try again

...

Sara (your love coach :/): Do you want to look hot or not???

[20180221008.jpg]

Sara (your love coach :/): mmm. Any jackets?

[20180221009.jpg]

[20180221010.jpg]

Sara (your love coach :/): okay the second one

It’s cold

Sara (your love coach :/): But you’ll be hot and what else matters tbh

***

Phichit isn’t sure how it happens, but he’s danced with five other people before he realises Seung-gil is nowhere to be seen.

He’d gone to get drinks, but that was a long time ago now. Phichit had told him that that didn’t matter, that he was gonna wheedle one off Viktor and Yuuri anyway, but Seung-gil had just frowned and muttered that he _wanted_ to get Phichit a drink.

And then he had disappeared.

Phichit squeezes his way to the counter. No Seung-gil, but Sara and Mila are sitting together drinking cocktails, and boy if they aren’t complete goals.

“Hey Sara, Mila,” he greets. “Congrats!” Phichit had already congratulated them both about eight times for medaling, but he figured one extra wouldn’t hurt.

Sara titters and drags him to stand next to her. “So what’s the deal with Seung-gil?”

“Actually, that was what I wanted to ask you guys about. Have you seen him around?”

Mila shrugs apologetically. Sara, on the other hand, sits up straight, straw caught between her lips.

“I’ll ask him,” she says, fishing her phone out of her skirt. Phichit has no idea where it was hidden, since the pockets looked very shallow.

She hums and taps out a message. Mila tries to peek over at the screen, and raises her eyebrows at Phichit when Sara leans back and shields her screen.

“So, you’re, uh, texting with Seung-gil?” Phichit asks, as casually as possible.

Sara glances up at him. Frowns. Then giggles.

“For the king of gossip, you’re a bit slow on this one.”

_What was that supposed to mean?_ Were Sara and Seung-gil—but no, Sara and _Mila_ were his OTP, and that was—

“Stop being dumb,” Sara outs her phone away and pats him on the shoulder. “When Seung-gil comes back, dance with him, okay?”

“Okay,” Phichit says, bewildered.

“Talk to him as well,” Mila drawls, and Sara nods knowingly. “Do _something_ , at least.”

“I have been doing...things,” Phichit protests, but Sara snorts and passes him her drink. Phichit takes it, bewildered.

“Can you give up the denial thing you’ve got going? It really doesn’t suit you,” Sara says teasingly, but her smile is kind, and Phichit feels his cheeks heat up.

“Am I that obvious?” He pokes at the ice in the cocktail. The sharp, tangy smell of alcohol fills his nose.

“You’re like a mini-sun,” Sara says, vaguely gesturing towards him. “It’s hard _not_ to notice when you shine the brightest.”

“And which people crave photosynthesis the most,” Mila adds. They high-five while Phichit wills his face to stop burning like the little traitor it is.

“Now you’re just flattering me,” he says with ease, but his heart is pounding.

Sara snorts. “I hope you can be that smooth around Seung-gil.”

“Thanks,” Phichit rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He turns to go and find Seung-gil, but something makes him stop.

“Sara,” he leans in. “Do you think I stand a chance?”

“Well I didn’t, so I’d say nobody stands a chance,” Sara says, making Mila chuckle.

“But you don't have to worry, Phichit.” She shrugs. “Don't overthink things. I can’t say too much, confidentiality, you know.”

Phichit nods, a thrill shooting through him. There were implications there that he didn’t dare take apart.

No. Not didn’t _dare_. Didn’t really need to.

“But you go and find him, okay?”

“Thanks,” Phihit says, utterly grateful for whatever she’s done.

He pushes the cocktail back to her, untouched. Sara waves it away. “Keep it. You’ll need it. Be smooth, sunshine.”

“Buy us more when you get together!” Mila whisper-yells as he pushes off the bar. He doesn’t need to look back to know what faces they both pull.

***

“Are you sure you’re not going to drink, Yuuri?” Viktor sounds out of breath as he twirls Yuuri around and dips him in one fluid motion. They look like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Knowing the couple, they probably practiced ice dance in the kitchen with their socks on. (Phichit wouldn’t put it past them. He witnessed them improvising a whole dance routine while waiting for the water to boil last time he visited.)

“For the last time, _no alcohol_ , Viktor.” Yuuri pushes him playfully in the chest. “We have practice tomorrow.”

“That we do.” Viktor leans in until they’re pressed flush against each other and nuzzles their noses together. “It never stops you from dancing until midnight, though. You should at least wait for me, Yuuri!”

Yuuri turns pink, but there’s a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, you need to keep up, Viktor,” he says, pecking him on the lips and dragging him upright, as they cling together and sway as one.

It’s a testimony to how far Yuuri has come when he spots Phichit’s phone pointed at them and merely blushes. He flicks Phichit a reproachful glance, which Phichit cheerfully ignores, knowing full well that he’d receive a request for the clip later.

He smiles at the pair, lost in their own little world again, and wonders, not for the first time, where on earth Seung-gil has gone.

He’s about to open his mouth to ask Viktor and Yuuri, maybe, even if it meant bursting their little bubble. Before he can open his mouth, there’s a firm tap on his shoulder.

Phichit turns, still smiling, and there’s hands on his shoulders and—

A pair of lips land on his.

For a few seconds, Phichit’s mind goes completely blank.

Then it all comes crashing into him with terrifying clarity: body heat and the smell of alcohol, and he tastes it, bitterness, on his tongue, hot and wet as the person’s tongue feeds into his mouth. _Someone is kissing me_ , Phichit registers dully, until the shape of the person wrapped around him falls into place and he smells a familiar scent under the smell of booze.

Before Phichit can decide how to react, what to do, what to _think_ , Seung-gil breaks the kiss and drags his lips across Phichit’s cheek. Arms come up to circle around his neck.

Phichit blinks, still in shock, and Viktor and Yuuri’s surprised faces come into view from over Seung-gil’s shoulder. The noise of the club pours back into Phichit’s conscious, but it doesn’t distract him from the Seung-gil cocoon he’s currently wrapped in.

“Seung-gil,” Phichit murmurs weakly. Seung-gil hums in response, mouthing at Phichit’s neck, warm and wet, and Phichit shudders, acutely reminded of his own quickening pulse.

“Seung-gil,” Phichit tries to pry Seung-gil off him gently, but it’s proving difficult. “Are you okay?”

Seung-gil peers at him blearily before burying his face in Phichit’s neck again. “Better now I’ve kissed you,” he mumbles.

Oh.

Seung-gil is definitely, _definitely_ drunk.

“Seung-gil, you’re drunk. We should probably get you home," Phichit says softly to him, having no idea whether he would absorb the message or not. 

Apparently not. “No,” Seung-gil whines, actually _whines,_ refusing to be pried off Phichit. “Wanna stay—with you—”

Phichit is torn between melting into a puddle or pinching himself to wake himself up. “I’ll go with you, okay? I’ll take you back?”

Seung-gil blinks at Phichit, as if assessing whether to trust him to stay or not.

“Okay then, if you come too.” Seung-gil pouts and burrows his face into Phichit’s top. Phichit tries not to feel self-conscious about how sweaty and gross he must be after dancing, though Seung-gil is probably too drunk to notice.

Yuuri appears with their coats in hand, which Phichit accepts gratefully. They work together to shift Seung-gil into his coat and into a more practical position.

“At least he didn’t ask you to be his coach,” Viktor jokes. Yuuri flashes him a frown, and Viktor grins, palms up in surrender.

“Are you going to be okay?” Yuuri asks when they get to the exit, away from all the other partygoers.

“He’ll be fine! I’ll make sure he drinks enough water before he sleeps.”

Yuuri smiles, a little sadly.

“I was asking about you, Phichit.”

Phichit looks at Seung-gil, clinging to him and snuzzling his collar.

“I think so,” he says. “I hope.”

***

Min-hwi starts when he enters the room to see Phichit tending to Seung-gil with a damp towel.

“Uh.” He lingers in the doorway, reluctant to come in “Are you guys...?”

“Seung-gil got very drunk at the party tonight,” Phichit explains apologetically, ignoring the blush on Min-hwi’s face. “I’m sorry about this all.”

“Um, no problem!” Min-hwi stammers. “I’ll, uh—"

Seung-gil moans and opens his eyes, frowning. Phichit and Min-hwi look at him expectantly.

Seung-gil finds Phichit’s hand on his forehead and clings to it, not seeming to take any notice of its owner, instead squinting at Min-hwi.

“Go ‘way,” he croaks.

“Hyung, that’s rude,” Min-hwi protests, but Seung-gil’s frown just grows deeper.

“You’re so perfect, it’s annoying. You’ll steal Phichit,” he mumbles.

Phichit’s eyes grow wide and he tries to shake his head at Min-hwi, to signal that he shouldn’t take it to heart, but at the same time his heartbeat speeds up and his mind is racing in a way it shouldn’t be.

Min-hwi says something to Seung-gil in Korean, and Seung-gil mumbles back. Phichit has no idea what they’re saying, so he focuses on Seung-gil’s pale face, drawn in annoyance, and the soft, mumbled syllables coming out of his mouth. Seung-gil always sounds that bit harsher when he speaks in his native tongue, and Phichit loves it, basks in his confidence, but now he sounds small, soft in a way Phichit wished he could understand.

“I’ll go stay with Chien-hwa,” Min-hwi says to Phichit. His face is red.

“I’m really sorry,” Phichit says.

“Oh, no, Seung-gil would kill me if I stayed,” Min-hwi says, drawing a hand across his throat in demonstration. “And Chien-hwa, she—” He breaks off, rubbing his neck abashedly. Phichit smiles. Min-hwi’s abashed reaction makes him feel more at home, somehow, among the confusing storm that drunk Seung-gil is causing in his head.

“Um, Phichit?” Min-hwi says, poking his head back through the door. “You are both really good together,” he says. “Good luck. I hope hyung sorts himself out soon. And,”

Min-hwi grins, “You should tell him you like his jacket,”

“Um. Thanks?” Phichit says, but Min-hwi is already gone.


	10. wavelengths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone that celebrates pride had a great pride month! And it doesn't end here <3 keep going, all you beautiful peeps

 

The Exhibition skate list is announced. All the winners have a slot, as expected, with a couple extras. Both Seung-gil and Min-hwi make it, as well as most of Team Korea, and—Seung-gil notices with a great deal of joy—Phichit.

“Are you okay to skate?” Min-so asks him. She’s been slightly less strict on him for the couple of days following the results of the Free, but as the Gala draws near and plans for next season are being developed, things are settling back into routine.

Seung-gil frowns. “I’m fine.”

“Really? Took care of your hangover?”

“I’m _fine_.” Why is everybody asking him this? He got drunk, Phichit took care of him, he’s fine now. It was embarrassing, sure, but nothing on the scale of some of the fiascos he’s seen over the years. Phichit had easily brushed off his thanks for his help during the whole ordeal.

Except there is a nagging sensation that won’t leave him alone. He hasn’t talked to Phichit properly since his cured hangover, and he’s feeling the loss acutely. It dismays him to think of what it will be like after the Olympics are over and they are back to their respective countries to train.

Feels wrong. Feel different.

In future moments, Seung-gil will look back on this moment as the moment he knew there was no going back.

As it is, he can only convince Min-so that he’s good to go for his practice session.

***

Seung-gil catches up to Phichit in the cafeteria.

“Hi,” he breathes. It feels like way too long since they last spoke.

Phichit looks up at him. “Hi!”

The tone strikes Seung-gil as unfamiliar.

“I’m sorry, I was just finishing up! I need to sort out my program a bit more, you know how it is,” Phichit says, clearing up his tray.

Seung-gil’s gaze fall on his coffee cup. It still looks full.

“Okay then,” Seung-gil says, disappointed. Phichit smiles at him, apologetically.

Phichit is already walking away when Seung-gil frantically remembers to ask. “Um, Phichit?” Seung-gil calls. “Maybe, when you’re not busy, can I ask you for help? With my makeup?”

Phichit looks surprised. “Yes. Of course. When you need me.”

_When you need me_. Strange to think how often he feels that now.

***

“Why don’t you talk to him about it?”

“It’s...he’s...you know how he gets when he’s drunk, Yuuri. It probably didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re the one who always tells me that you don’t know if you never try,” Yuuri says. “You always tell _me_ to communicate properly, to say what I feel.”

“I know!” Phichit wails. “But what if I’m wrong this time? What if he didn’t mean anything by it and I just freak him out? What am I even supposed to say? ‘Oh, by the way, you snogged me at the party when you were drunk and unconscious and I’m sorry but could you do it again but sober?’”

“That _might_ work?”

Phichit lets out a frustrated wail. “I want to ask him what his exhibition skate is and go for coffee! I want to talk to him like normal! It’s just—I don’t know,” he sighs. “I can’t, just—just be as I usually am.”

Yuuri nods sagely. “There was a time when I couldn’t talk to Viktor. He shined too brightly. I felt like I couldn’t be on the same level as him, ever,” Yuuri says, smiling at Phichit before he can leap up and give a powerpoint TED talk on why Yuuri Katsuki Is a Great Person and He Should Know It. “So, I avoided him. I thought it was the best thing to do.

“But in reality, I think I was just scared. Scared that I might be hurt. Scared of feeling open in front of somebody. It _was_ scary.” Yuuri shrugged. “But Viktor showed me an open side of himself too. And I realised both of us felt the same way.

“You’ve always been braver than me, Phichit,” Yuuri says. “I think you can do it.”

Phichit is reminded of years ago when they shared a room in Detroit, the two of them figuring out how to live in a foreign country. Yuuri got homesick but hid it from his family whenever he called them, only letting his tears fall after he had hung up.

That had been the first time Yuuri hugged Phichit instead of the other way around.

_And not the last_ , Phichit thinks, as Yuuri hugs him again.

“Just talk to him,” Yuuri says quietly. “I think he deserves that.”

***

“So, what is your exhibition skate?” Phichit asks as he dabs at Seung-gil’s face gently with a sponge.

They’re in Phichit’s room, sat before the mirror, for a test look for the upcoming exhibition skate.

“It’s a secret,” Seung-gil says.

“How am I supposed to get a perfect look for you if you won’t tell me what it is?” Phichit sighs. “You ask too much of me.”

“I’d trust you to do my makeup with a blindfold,” Seung-gil says.

“I bet you would,” Phichit smirks. Seung-gil has to glance away before he blushes, or otherwise incriminates himself.

_You’re not special_ , Seung-gil reminds himself. _Just because Phichit makes you feel special doesn’t mean you are._

They’re quiet for a couple of moments.

“I’ll tell you what my exhibition skate is if you tell me yours,” Phichit says.

“I’ve _seen_ yours already,” Seung-gil scoffs.

“What? When?”

“4 Continents.”

“Oh, damn it. I knew I should have used last season’s instead.”

“No, I liked it.”

“I _could_ be doing a new one, you know?”

“You literally just admitted it, Phichit,” Seung-gil points out. “And you love _The King and the Skater_ too much not to show it off at the Olympics.”

Phichit sighs. Seung-gil feels the cool air on his cheek. “I’m getting way too predictable, aren’t I.”

Seung-gil shrugs. “I think it’s a great program.”

“You haven’t even seen _The King and the Skater_ , Seung-gil.”

“I have!”

“Woah, Seung-gil, don’t move—”

“I’ve seen it twice,” he mutters. “I figured if you liked it then it must be good.”

Phichit doesn’t reply.

Seung-gil cracks open an eye. Phichit is staring at him, makeup brush perched between his fingers.

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he says. “About the party.”

Seung-gil’s eyes open wide. There’s something about Phichit, the way his shoulders are set, the way his eyes are cast downwards that sets off alarm bells in his head.

Seung-gil feels the blood drain from his face. “I did something, didn’t I,” he breathes. “I am so, so sorry—”

“It was just a kiss,” Phichit shrugs. “You were drunk.”

Seung-gil jerks away from Phichit's touch.

No, no, _no_ , surely not.

He  _kissed_ Phichit? This is bad.

This is really, really bad.

And the saddest thing is that he kissed Phichit and remembers none of it.

“I’m really sorry—”

“Don’t be.” Phichit smiles, but it’s not enough to hide the strain in his smile, now that Seung-gil knows where to look for it. “I know how it is when you get drunk. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Seung-gil frowns. He doesn’t know why his heart hurts at Phichit’s words, at the nonchalance of them.

“You could have told me,” he whispers. “I would have apologised sooner.”

“It’s no big deal!” Phichit shrugs. “Don’t worry about it. No harm done. Now let’s get back to it, shall we?”

Except there was harm done, obviously, and Seung-gil doesn’t know how to fix it.

“Do you hate me now?” he asks, and Phichit’s expression softens.

“Of course I don’t, Seung-gil. You were drunk and it was an accident.”

Seung-gil can’t help it, can’t help the pain in his chest, can’t help but feel like he’s throwing it all away. “What if it wasn’t?” he says quietly. “I can’t remember any of it, but I do know—”

“What?”

“I do know that I—like you. A lot. So much that it just,” Seung-gil gestures frustratedly. “Explodes.”

Phichit looks at him, wide-eyed.

“I drank a lot that night,” Seung-gil says, shame tainting his words. “You were dancing with Min-hwi, and I just—” he grimaces.

“I danced with him?”

“You did,” Seung-gil says. “He was _fanboying_.”

“I didn’t even notice,” Phichit says. He sounds breathless. He runs his fingers over the brush. “Seung-gil, were you _jealous_?”

“...Yes.” _This is the part where Phichit finds out how horrible you are, falling in love with your best friend, only friend, thinking about him in that way and basically assaulting him when you were drunk—_

Seung-gil dares to look up.

It’s hard to describe the change that comes over Phichit’s expression.

Seung-gil once saw, in a nature program on a plane flight, a time-lapse of a sunflower budding and blooming, unfurling in a bright blaze of glory. That would be it, a similar feeling to that, but with heat, and warmth—

“Don’t worry about Min-hwi,” Phichit says. “He ships us.”

“He what?”

“He ships us. Do you ship us?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” 

Phichit bursts into fit of giggles. “Seung-gil, your _face_ ,” he says, as he dries his eyes with his sleeve. “It’s beautiful.”

Seung-gil feels his face heat up. His ears are smarting. “Why are you laughing at me?”

“Not _at_ you,” Phichit grins. “I’m just happy. You _like_ me.”

Looking at Phichit’s smile, Seung-gil dares to hope.

He’s sure of it, now, when before there had been doubts. Sure that he just wants that smile to bloom on Phichit’s face whenever it can.

“Of course I like you,’ Seung-gil rushes to say. “You’re just—how could I not—"

“ _Seung-gil_ ,” Phichit says, and Seung-gil can feel the happiness radiating off him, and it lifts him up as well. High. Giddy.

“Yeah.”

“ _Lee Seung-gil_.”

“Phichit Chulanont?”

“Hi, that’s me.” Phichit giggles.

Seung-gil isn’t sure when they started hugging, but they’re tangled together, somehow balancing on the chair. Phichit’s arms are wrapped around him, pressure on his chest like they’re going to melt into each other. Seung-gil inhales Phichit’s familiar scent, warm, like he’s been basking in gentle sunlight for the last few hours.

“I like you too, Seung-gil. Heaps. So much.” Phichit says, hugging him tighter. “Sorry for not telling you sooner.”

“Don’t be,” he mumbles. “I’m, uh, sorry for kissing you without your permission.”

Phichit draws back, and Seung-gil blinks up at him.

Phichit grins. “You have my full permission now.” 

Seung-gil is positive his make-up is going to be ruined.

He doesn’t care in the slightest.


	11. dancing's not a crime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter, folks! The next chapter will be a short epilogue. Thanks for coming with me on this sappy journey with the boys.

Seung-gil is not a fan of gala practices.

He doesn’t like the saccharine whatever-is-on-the-radio-now pop music they choose for the ensemble performances, and he hates waiting around for other people to catch up; even more so when they’re messing around instead of practicing. Proof in point: as soon as the choreographer leaves the room, a bunch of skaters start racing around the rink, led by Mila Babicheva bench-pressing Yuri Plisetsky.

Seung-gil rolls his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to stop stealing glances at the group.

He refuses to call it fun, even inside his head.

But it’s less irritating than it used to be.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a flash of black as someone hops over the barrier. He turns to see Phichit climbing back over with a boombox on his shoulder.

Seung-gil hasn’t even seen a boombox before.

The other skaters whoop and cheer when they see it, and Yuri shouts from his precarious position for “Beka” to “get control of the player, don’t let them play lame stuff.”

Phichit mock bows and blows a kiss to a clapping Giocometti. Seung-gil tries not to glare at the latter as he blows one back.

Seung-gil skates up behind Phichit, who has his phone in hand and is watching a makeshift ice disco unfold with a grin. It’s the grin he gets when he captures a particularly funny video for Instagram, when Seung-gil accidently sticks his chopsticks in his glass of water, or when Katsuki trips over absolutely nothing but his own feet.

“What are you playing?” Seung-gil asks.

Phichit shoots him an amused look. “Toto by Africa.”

“Okay.” Seung-gil frowns, none the brighter.

“See, that’s how I know you have no idea what I’m talking about, because it’s actually Africa by Toto.”

“Um, okay?”

Phichit bursts out laughing.

He doesn’t stop giggling until the choreographer comes back and asks them to rehearse their moves—and even then, Phichit keeps pulling weird faces and mouthing what Seung-gil assumes are the lyrics to the song at him whenever Seung-gil catches his eye. He’s only caught by the choreographer once, and wriggles his way out of a lecture with his silver tongue.

After the group choreography, there’s a part where they can do signature moves, and Phichit proceeds to slide on his butt in simultaneously the cutest and the most graceful way Seung-gil ever thought possible. Everyone laughs, even Katsuki, who rushes over to drag Phichit up.

Seung-gil thinks of Phichit, weeks ago, trying a quad and ending up sprawling, and smiles. He swears sees Phichit wink at him as he dusts himself off.

***

“Is it K-pop? Please tell me it’s K-pop.” Phichit is bouncing up and down, whether from the cold of the rink or excitement, Seung-gil doesn’t know.

“Didn’t you just see in practice?”

“No!” Phichit wails. “Ciao Ciao made me miss your session,” he says, pouting.

_Cute_ , Seung-gil thinks. He panics for a split second before he realises that, no, he’s allowed to think that now.

_Cute_ , the voice in his head says, much more firmly than before.

“But there was good news,” Phichit says. “I’ve been talking to Ciao Ciao, and it will take some time and a lot of hard work, but he said once I have a complete plan for the ice show, we could talk about which sponsors to choose.” Phichit turns to Seung-gil. “I might not have made the podium but apparently there's been a boost in popularity back home.”

Seung-gil’s not bold enough to hug him right now, not when there are athletes still milling around and they have no privacy whatsoever, but he smiles, and hopes it will suffice until later. “Figure skating popularity or your popularity?”

“Both, of course.” Phichit winks. “So many interviews...you get an interview, and you get an interview, everyone gets an interview...”

Seung-gil nods, but he can feel his heart sink. He, too, has had an onslaught of interviews, and there will be more to come, but he is only reminded of how little time he has left with Phichit until they have to part again.

_If only he’d realised sooner_ —no, no time for regrets, he thinks as he shakes his head. Focus on now.

There’s a poke in his side. “So is it K-pop?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Seung-gil says.

“Oh dear,” Phichit says, mock-serious. “You’re becoming more and more of a tease.”

“I learn from the best,” he says, and Phichit laughs.

***

“This was a great idea,” Phichit says as he puts the finishing touches to Seung-gil’s face.

“How so?” Seung-gil asks. He was being annoyingly stubborn and refused to take off his team jacket to show Phichit his costume, but Phichit was confident he would look good either way. The bottom half of Seung-gil’s costume was black, at least, so the look wouldn’t be _too_ far off.

“Silver eyeshadow just looks so _good_ on you.”

Seung-gil’s ears turn red, which Phichit takes great satisfaction to. “Thanks to you,” he mumbles, and Phichit’s heart swells at it.

“Oh, you’re welcome.” Phichit bats his eyes. “So. Aren’t you hot? Aren’t you gonna take off your jacket?”

Seung-gil rolls his eyes. “Don’t you need to do your own makeup?”

“Huh.” Phichit frowns. “You're lucky you think quick.”

***

Phichit looks like a prince, Seung-gil thinks. Or, more like a prince than usual. Seung-gil wants to tell him as such, but Phichit beats him to it.

“Are you trying to _kill me_?” Phichit blurts out as soon as he lays eyes on Seung-gil.

Seung-gil blinks. He’s wearing jeans, specially made for the right stretch, a black fitting vest, and a mesh jacket. The jacket might have been see-through for all it covered, but Sara had said it was a good idea, and Seung-gil was prepared to go all out for this finale.

It seems to be working. Phichit is gaping at him, blushing, eyes running up to Seung-gil’s face and down to his clothes again in a way that would have made Seung-gil uncomfortable if it were anyone but Phichit doing it.

As it is, he just feels slightly elated.

_This is checking out, right? Phichit is checking me out._ Seung-gil’s heart flutters at the thought, as he lets his eyes roam over Phichit in return, the way his red, velvety costume hugs his waist—

“Oh my god, I can’t!” Phichit yelps. “Seung-gil, are you seriously trying to kill me? Not to mention all the poor souls in this stadium! And the people watching at home! And all the people illegally live-streaming! Do you want to be responsible for all those fatalities?"

“You’re exaggerating,” Seung-gil says.

“That jacket last time was bad enough,” Phichit moans. _So he did take notice_ , Seung-gil notes gleefully.“This is just _too much_. And yes, I still want to get a photo before everyone else eats you up.”

Seung-gil watches, amused, as Phichit fumbles with his phone. Phichit’s eyes turn up to look at him, full of reproach.

“I’m going to die,” he whispers, emphatically.

Seung-gil grabs the phone.“Let’s take a selfie.”

If this is Phichit’s reaction to Seung-gil feeling a bit cold, maybe he should do it more often.

***

Phichit slams neatly into Yuuri. Luckily, Yuuri is used to being slammed into by Phichit, and only stumbles slightly, before calmly taking out his earbuds.

“Are you alright?”

“Lee Seung-gil is dressed to kill and my heart can’t handle it,” Phichit whines. “It’s like he doesn’t care for _anyone’s_ safety.”

“Ah.” Yuuri nods sagely. “Eros?”

“Eros.” Phichit knew Yuuri would be able to understand.

Phichit sighs. “I’m surprised I’m still alive right now.”

Yuuri laughs, light and hesitant. And really, it’s just like Yuuri to stay his beautiful self, even after winning Olympic gold. Phichit would be off the walls in his position.

Not that Yuuri is totally unaffected, though. Phichit can see the dusting of pink on Yuuri’s cheeks, the shine in his eyes. Yuuri’s lips look lush as well, but that was probably due to Viktor abusing his Chanel lip balm endorsement rather than any medals.

“Congratulations,” Phichit says softly. He’ll say it again and again and mean it every single time.

Yuuri ducks his head abashedly but doesn’t deflect it. He’s come so, so far. Both of them have.

Phichit scrunches his eyes to stop any traitorous tears from falling. He’s just finished his makeup, damn it. “So when’s the wedding?”

“It didn’t work the first time you asked me, Phichit-kun, and it’s not going to work now.”

“It was worth a try.” Phichit shrugs. “Anyway, it was the wrong question, I should be asking when are the _weddings_ , shouldn’t I?”

“N-no?” Yuuri squeaks.

Yuuri is a _terrible_ liar.

***

Seung-gil wishes he had more than a screen and a sliver of a view from backstage. He wishes there were no other skaters milling around. Not for the first time, Seung-gil wishes it was just him and Phichit and no one else inbetween.

But there’s always an audience to please. And Seung-gil wouldn’t take that away from Phichit for anything in the world.

When Phichit steps out onto the ice, it’s like the whole rink concentrates, shrinks down to the contact of blades on ice and nothing else. Seung-gil wrenches his eyes off the tracks he leaves, only to be captured by the dazzle of his costume.

Seung-gil used to think that watching Phichit skate was like taking sunglasses off outside on a sunny day. Bright. Dazzling. You had to squint, or else you’d be blinded.

But now he can’t look away.

The sun doesn't cry for anyone. The sun wouldn’t kiss you if you felt sad. And most importantly, the sun does not need a spotlight trained on it.

Phichit loves the spotlight, it's clear to see, but the spotlights love Phichit more, clinging to him devotedly, like they want nothing more than to follow him forever. Cameras run to catch up. Seung-gil knows the feeling.

And the best thing is, probably, now Seung-gil allows himself to feel, to think the thoughts that not so long ago were just hazy, confused distractions, and he has the reassurance that afterwards he can tell Phichit exactly what he thought. If he wanted to.

And even if words fail him, as they are prone to do for Seung-gil, he can just _show_ Phichit, no words required.

Phichit sweeps round the rink. He exhales, turns his gaze, preparing for a jump; Seung-gil is familiar with that by now. He can’t see his feet; they’re cut off by the screen. Probably a triple combo, this late in the performance—

Phichit kicks off into quad loop.

Seung-gil gasps—remembers cold hands and knees and _what can you possibly do to help him when he’s out there and you—_

There are cheers as Phichit lands it, wobbling, laughing as he dips on the landing and brings himself back up, laughing as if he can’t believe he actually managed to land it. That face of wonder. _Did you see that?_

_But you did it. You did it._

_Why did you do a quad loop?_

A hundred reasons, each more reasonable than the other. Then the unreasonable one, the fantasy: _because it’s yours._

Phichit’s laugh as he bows. How he finds the camera, somehow, and winks. The world will see that and think nothing of it. It’ll be a interview header on some website, perhaps. Some people will screenshot it, make it into a gif, treasure it as if it were theirs to keep.

Seung-gil knows it’s for him.

***

Phichit has never been so acutely aware of his own mortality.

He’s pretty sure he’s _this_ close to giving up breathing altogether. He doesn’t even care that he’s hogging the best spot to spy on the rink outside. He also doesn’t care that technically, he shouldn’t be blocking the entrance/exit. It’s not like there is anything more important than Seung-gil skating to BTS in a freaking _mesh jacket_ for the next three minutes.

Yuuri dutifully lets Phichit grab his arm for support. Phichit had spotted Viktor slinking away a few programs ago, unnoticed by everyone else A finger to his lips and a wink had told Phichit all he needed to know. And it’s a good thing Yuuri is free for Phichit to grab on to, or else he might have accidentally broken a TV or two when Seung-gil had dropped his first move and the crowd had gone crazy. Or when he went and _unzipped_ his already very see-though jacket. Hell, Phichit would have broken three TVs by then.

Phichit doesn’t trust himself one little bit when it comes to Seung-gil.

They survive until the second verse, until Seung-gil rolls his hips in a way that Phichit has never seen him done before and hopes he can persuade him to do many more times in the future. Yuuri gasps. He probably wants to take notes on how to do a perfect Lee-style hip roll. Phichit can already see it; Yuuri and Seung-gil exchanging notes on how to make everyone watching spontaneously combust from desire. The world wouldn't be able to handle it.

Seung-gil ends, miming a mic drop with an honest-to-god smoulder, and Phichit is ready to throw himself at a wall.  
"I want to be that jacket."

"But he just threw it on the ice?" Yuuri squeaks.

" _Exactly,_ " Phichit moans.

"Can you stop being so goddamn thirsty?" Yuri P. sweeps in in full black-metal get up. Phichit knew for a fact that his coaches, and most rink sound engineers for that matter, had hoped that Yuri Plisetsky's flirtation with rock exhibition programs was just a phase. As if to spite them all, Yurio's music taste had escalated to the point of no return. Phichit and Christophe had a bet going on as to when the ISU would break and ban him from playing loud screamy music in big big rooms. (Christophe bet one season for either Yurio to change his taste or an ISU official to go deaf. Phichit bet at least two, though he kept a careful eye on Yurio's public Spotify playlists just in case.)

"Of course I could," Phichit says sweetly. "But then, if I recall correctly, is it not none other than you who said that Otabek's exhibition costume looked, and I quote, "so good it's illegal?"

"Sh-shut up! I did not say that!" Yurio splutters. "Don't you dare laugh, Katsudon! I hate you both!"

"Didn't you?" A calm voice, deep in a way that Phichit is jealous of, and sure enough it's Otabek, followed by a smirking Sara and Mila, arm in arm. Phichit serves Yurio his most angelic grin and backs away, leaving him to fluster in front of Otabek, delighting in the way Yurio's expression changes from "help me" to "you demon."

Phichit doesn’t waste time celebrating that small victory, though. He has a boy to congratulate, and maybe snog senseless afterwards, if he’s lucky.

***

The music change is what gave it away, really. Phichit could recognise those chords in his sleep. Stammi Vicino. A full orchestral edition.

The absolute _saps_.

“Don’t tell me they’re going to—” Yuri growls, cut off by the loud cheers from the audience.

Phichit grins. _Oh yes, they are._

Sure enough, the floodlights bathe the rink in purple and Yuuri freezes in his tracks as Viktor sweeps into the rink in his white suit ensemble with a bouquet as big as his torso. Blue roses and green carnations. He skates round and stops, half a rink away from Yuuri. Phichit doesn’t need to see them to know that they’re holding gazes.

It’s so extra it hurts.

The whole stadium collectively loses it, and since none of them want to miss out on the greatest proposal of the century, the finalists creep out (well, Yurio stormed out) behind the barriers and gather round to watch. A couple volunteers staged at the entrance glance between them and the figures on the ice, alarmed, before deciding that the situation was already way out of their control and joining them to watch.

Viktor and Yuuri glide towards each other, and Viktor twirls his suit jacket off his shoulders and onto Yuuri’s. They skate together, looking for all the world like they’ve fully rehearsed, though Phichit knows they’re improvising. They could be dancing in the kitchen for all they cared about the rest of the world right now.

There’s a feather-like touch on Phichit’s wrist, and he drags his eyes away from the lovebirds to see Seung-gil, hair tousled, still in his mesh jacket and sliver eyeshadow that Phichit put on for him.

Phichit catches his hand and tugs him closer. He can barely talk, filled to the brim with everything.

“They’ve stolen the spotlight very effectively,” Seung-gil leans in to speak over the commotion around them. “Aren’t you going to vlog this?”

Phichit shakes his head. Viktor is currently down on one knee and Yuuri looks like he’s going to cry, but Phichit doesn’t want to take his eyes off Seung-gil’s, dark and shimmering.

And maybe someday they’ll have something like this, he thinks. Not exactly like this of course, not with all the lights, or spectators, but something quieter. They’ll take care of their pets together and cook each other food, and Phichit will show Seung-gil all the movies he hasn’t had time to watch that will get monosyllabic reviews. Maybe. If that’s what they both want. Phichit knows he does.

That’s long off, though, and for now there is more to look forward to. Staying up late messaging each other and getting scolded by their coaches for it the next day. Photos to be sent, trips to be planned, ice shows to make realities. They can take it slow, if they want. Or not. They don’t have much time, but then, there’s all the time in the world.

***

 

“Well, what a way to retire.” Phichit sighs. “ Nothing less for the Living Legend. This may as well be the Katsuki-Nikiforov wedding reception.” Seung-gil eyes the flow of well-wishers clinking glasses with Viktor and Yuuri, and he has to agree. Not that he minds. It’s nice to be left in peace.

“I’m glad for them,” Seung-gil says, quietly.

Phichit shoots him a look.

“What? I mean it.”

“I thought you hated PDA?”

Seung-gil thinks about it. “I don’t hate it or like it. But I am happy for them.”

“So gracious of you.” Phichit says lightly, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. Seung-gil knows Phichit well enough by now to know when he’s joking to cover something else up.

“I’m not heartless,” he says, slipping his hand into Phichit’s.

“You’re not.” Phichit smiles, for real this time, and they stand like that, linked hands hidden between their backs and the champagne table. Nothing too obvious, but there if anyone looked hard enough.

“I think I just realised how hard it is.” Seung-gil says. “To get to that point. Where you’re together.”

Phichit doesn’t think he’s talking about Yuuri and Viktor anymore.

“It’s worth it,” Phichit says. His smile is gorgeous. Seung-gil wants to see it every day. It wouldn’t be too hard to persuade Phichit to send him a selfie every day, would it?

They haven’t talked about what comes next, after the Olympics, after Worlds, after next season. They will, undoubtedly, in a quiet moment yet to come.

Not now, though. Not now, when the lights are bright and the music fills the room and champagne is buzzing comfortably in their bellies.

“You like this song,” Seung-gil says suddenly. Phichit put it on his insta-story, a few weeks ago. Said it was great for running.

It’d be good for dancing as well.

“Let’s go dance,” Seung-gil says at the same time Phichit says, “Dance?”

Phichit’s eyes light up in delight, and tugs him away from the table, shoes scuffing in the thick carpet.

The other skaters catch on quickly. “Come on, show us your moves!” Giocometti wolf whistles. Mila leaps up, dragging Sara with her. “Couple dance battle!” Sara yells, and Seung-gil swears to change her contact name later just to spite her. Viktor appears out of the crowd, Yuuri at his heel, Russian Yuri shouting at them to wait up.

“Seung-gil.” Phichit turns to hum, grinning. “Let’s wreck these losers.”

Seung-gil smirks, easy and familiar. It’s like they’re on the ice again, free to move, veins thrumming with life.

“Let’s,” Seung-gil says, taking his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seung-gil's EX was 100% inspired by [Misha Ge's Micdrop performance.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rx3o1vxUVt8) Please watch it if you haven't already. PLEASE.


	12. epilogue

Min-hwi has been efficiently exiled from his own room. Not that he seems to mind, now that he and Chien-hwa have hit it off. Not to mention the fact that he seems to think that he single-handedly played matchmaker for them; Seung-gil isn’t looking forward to having Min-hwi hold it over his head for all of the foreseeable future. But that’s a problem for future Seung-gil.

“...and that’s why I’m certain Viktor and Yuuri are turning Onsen on Ice into their wedding. My theory is foolproof and I don't take constructive criticism." Phichit grins. "You’re going this year, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss Viktor showing off for the world,” Seung-gil says drily. He’s going to have to have a conversation with Min-so, and he’s going to get jabs as to why he’s interested in ice shows all of a sudden, but it’ll be worth it.

“Oh god.” Phichit laughs. “I feel bad for saying it, but I’m kinda glad he won’t be competing at Beijing.”

“Beijing.” Seung-gil rolls it over his tongue. It doesn't sting like _Pyeongchang_ did.

Phichit nods. “Promise you’ll be there?”

“Oh, I promise to wreck you,” Seung-gil says, throwing a husky plushie at Phichit.

“Oh, please do,” Phichit says, voice dark, and Seung-gil has no idea how he does it. Just Phichit lowering his eyelids is all it takes to make Seung-gil’s face heat up.

“I don’t—I—stop it,” Seung-gil mutters.

“Or you’ll what?” Phichit laughs.

Seung-gil doesn’t say anything, just knows that he can’t let Phichit have the last word, so he grabs Phichit’s shirt and kisses him.

It’s weird, in a sense, to feel how soft Phichit’s hair is between his fingers, to breathe against his skin, when all he’s done for years is look from afar. But 15-year-old Seung-gil would never have imagined how Phichit would kiss back, thread his hands in Seung-gil’s hair, legs entwined with his, skin against skin.

Finally, they break apart, and Seung-gil feels a deep rush of satisfaction to see Phichit’s eyelids flutter open, lips parted and pink.

“Or I’ll do that,” Seung-gil manages to say.

“If that’s what I get, I’ll keep doing it, you know, Seung-gil.” Phichit laughs softly, resting his head on Seung-gil’s shoulders. “You might need to rethink your strategy.”

“My strategy is perfect, thank you very much.”

***

It’s not fair, really. Having to see people off at airports is the worst. When you get on a plane, at least there are other things to think about. The person left behind just goes home to emptiness.

Seung-gil won’t feel empty for long, though. He’s sure of that. Phichit has already spammed their LINE chat with about thirteen husky stickers.

“So I’ll see you at Worlds?”

“If you don’t go mad with loneliness without me and fly over to see me first.”

“I think you made a mistake. That would be you.”

“Shut up, Seung-gil. I’ll see you at Worlds. No, I’ll  _demolish_ you at Worlds.”

“What is this, flirting or trash talk?” Celestino booms at them.

Phichit huffs. “You’re ruining our moment, Ciao Ciao! Go away and buy Miss Min-so a coffee or something.”

Min-so and Celestino share a long-suffering look but comply.

Phichit dives in for a hug as soon as they’ve left. “Message me, okay?”

It’s less than a month till Worlds. It seems like a long time to go without Phichit, not when they’ve been together for the last three weeks. But as Sara puts it, “I’ve never seen a couple so cut out for an LDR. You literally flirted over social media for three years before getting it on.” Phichit had gone red at that, and Seung-gil had marked that down for further investigation.

“Okay.”

“And I want pictures of Gongchu. Daily. I want my daily fluffy feed.”

“If you send me smiley selfies every day.”

“Really? That’s so cute, Seung-gil. You’re so cute.”

“Shut up,” Seung-gil says.

They’re hugging so tight that Seung-gil thinks they’ll slip into each other’s bodies. He could lean down a couple centimetres and kiss Phichit so easily.

So he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride! 
> 
> Thank you thank you THANK YOU to @desperatelyobsessional for all your help, support, and love. When I think about it, we met because of this fic and I am so SO glad—glad that I clicked on a certain link at a certain time, and that I wrote the comment that I did when I did, and that you responded with all your bubbliness and radiance, and that we became friends. Like, I used to look at all the fics with "thank you to @xyz" in the notes and I'd be like "haha, that's cute, but probably not gonna happen to me." Thank you for proving me wrong.


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